It's been a little over a year,

Typing on this keyboard,

With lingering thoughts that bare,

Wondering why I kept silent,

For all this time,

When poetry etches the deepest fragments,

The stories, the tormented secrets

Strung together by metaphors,

Questions by readers who are all intertwined,

Engrossed in the rhythm, a song-less rhyme,

And I ponder.

To give an ode to such that is poetry

Is like giving recognition to water for all living entities.

As words call to me,

In unspoken tragedy and the first thing I do,

Is write one stanza or two,

And all my feelings flow,

Words that echo written down for all to know,

Sketched on line paper,

A taste of my past,

Something for all to remember.