Poetry was
Something she did
When she was young
Playing with rhyme and reason
and honesty
Scribbling words and feelings
On scraps of paper
Absently scattered throughout her world

As she grew
The fragments collected
In piles, boxes, drawers
She wasn’t proud or ashamed of them,
They were nothing,
Just bits and pieces
Of a person she used to be

Poetry is
Something she never
Planned to continue
There was no point really
But when the words take over
Escaping in a raw and rushed form
Pieces of her bleeding onto pages
She can't help but let them go
Maybe someday she’ll stop

NCL April 2019