Poetry’s Poem                          

Is breathing an obsession?

I think not, when breath means I’m existing.

Is poetry a compulsion?

I think not, when poetry means I’m living,

For blood and poetry is the same.

Both pump through my heart and veins;

Both bleed onto the paper that I touch.

No other expression can say as much.

 

As newborn turtles crawl towards the moon,

Talent gravitates towards its untaught tune.

When van Gogh held a brush,

When Beethoven pressed a key,

There was not a doubt as such

As for what the artists wished to be.

No thought of doubt crossed my mind,

When I first picked up that pen of mine.

 

Gifts start not as lessons but as gifts,

To be given and shared as fairness sees fit,

To help what cannot be faced, be braved,

And what cannot be said, be voiced:

The bullies that blocked my road,

The apologies that went untold,

The colors one at dawn and dusk,

A newborn’s eyes awake with trust.

 

These words enliven, these words do sway,

But not always do they flow my way,

For eyes are not the windows to the soul,

When the soul is barred and the eyes are closed.

Hours of digging, of sweat and toil,

To unearth what I buried in the soil:

Words wrung out with salty tears,

Syllables forced from my body and fears.

 

When I scrape away the scars and lies,

What I find is beauty to my eyes:

Moments eternalized in elegant lines,

(A flower pushing out of the weeds;

A nest for birds sheltered by the trees)

Reflections in teardrops crystalized,

(Two families, one baby, a generation anew;

A troubled youth appreciating what is true).

 

And so this story concludes where it begins,

And begins where it concludes:

For blood and poetry is the same.

Both pump through my heart and veins;

Both bleed onto the paper that I touch.

No other expression can say as much,

And no other expression would I crave

Than this one; my soul it has saved.