I thought,

there is no adoring crowd.

How could any person

lower themselves

into a boxing ring

full of lovely ropes

people can hang you with?

Because its all about

what they will say.

 

Say you find yourself in that basement

and everyone else

with a golden tooth

on the top floor,

waiting

for you

to come share your work,

your poems.

Oh but no. 

You must stay down here

I told myself.

Because if it's not what they want

then you will find yourself

working

for the new life

that will be even harder than the one before

But

“What’s it like outside?”

Will no longer be the question.
Will no longer be the thought.
Will no longer exist.

 

So I got tired of hearing the weather

from the radio that happened

to be upstairs.

Because I realized

I was not apart of it.

So I picked myself up

to take each step at a time 

 

As I began to open the door

I told myself,

This is what other people’s

hands look like, and how soon 

they will hold you

and your work. 

The hands you once wrote with

will no longer slap you

across the face

or pinch the tip

of your bottom lip

but hold your head high

and you will rejoice

because you are alive.

and you will no longer

have to bear the weight

of the ocean, your thoughts

within your lungs

as the fish tell you

to stop writing

you will catch each one

from within each lung and throw

those bad thoughts 

on the page

because in the end

it will be a new poem.

And they are just people…

and not the devils

you always thought them to be.

And in the end

you will realize

that they have 

saved you.