my english teacher asked me
to write a poem for a young author contest
she likes my writing
and thinks i could win

i wonder how to tell her that i can only write poems when my emotions are on high
my hands only know how to speak when i am spitting fire
the only time my claws come out and carve words into trees
is when my eyes leak venom and my jaw is unhinged

i can’t write poems about fall without ******* the life out of the season
i bite into the beauty and leave it bone dry
the leaves from the trees are not leaves,
they’re the burdens i place on my friends when my brain changes color

i can write about love; god knows i can write about love
i’ll write ten pages on the heaviness that it leaves on my chest
the pressure on my lungs makes it hard to breathe but my god is it addicting
the love that falls from my fingertips is real, it is intense, it is too much for anyone to see

poetry is not my passion
it is first and foremost a coping mechanism
my head is a ship in a bottle
i only crack it open when i start to drown