my voice is spun glass,
as fragile as the wings of a butterfly taking it's first flight out of it's cocoon.
so long my voice has remained unused,
drowned out in the voices of others,
whisked away in the hurricane that is my thoughts.
my voice is weak and unfamiliar,
even to myself.
it's not as strong as the sea.
it can't sustain life, or  drown it away.
the force of it alone is not crushing;
it is feather-light

the secret about poetry is that it changes things,
just as the ocean does.
when you hardly ever speak,
it can give you the power to transform your voice into something better.

a fragile voice,
frail with disuse,
becomes a force of it's own.
it becomes a gale.

i do not need a voice like the ocean.
i have a voice of my own.