Poetry is a tool, and I have found that the more I practice, the more precise I am.
It is an x-ray machine, allowing me to discover where I wish to examine myself.
It is rib shears, slicing my ribs open to expose my heart.
It is a bone saw, cutting into my head to free what has been bulit up inside.
It is a chisel, breaking and resetting my bones so that I may express pain.
It is morphene, helping me forget my emotional turmoil.
Poetry is a tool that reminds me I am human.