People still ask me if I write my own poems.
If my voice box has gift wrapped someone else's words,
If I am giving sound to a deaf child or
extracting a gold tooth or
sealing a crack in the Liberty Bell.
I do none of these things.
I am filling the space between wind chimes
with a breeze, I am composing this music
myself. So
Yes, these are my poems.
I made them to love me a little more.
These are the friends my fingers fashioned from their own nerve endings.
I made them to put a metaphor to madness.
This is my story
This is my heartbeat measured in pages of poetry,
This is how I built a house with no windows.
how I scream the darkness onto paper instead of at friends,
how I hate so hard I bleed alphabets into my notebook
This is my heartbeat measured in how many times
I've loved myself enough
to write something
worth sharing.
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