If you cut open my arm,
I would bleed out poetry.
Lines of sacred poems from authors such as Bukowski, Maya Angelou, Mary Oliver.

I am a poem.
I like to think of my life that way.
Romanticizing it
makes it a little more bearable.

Maybe it’s easier to
articulate my thoughts,
when it rhymes.

It’s easier to express myself
in vague terms
and mysterious stories.

Poetry is my favorite dead language.
Rarely seen nowadays,
yet still stays so beautiful.

Exotic in its nature,
but exquisite in it’s simplicity.

It explains my most vigorous notions into gentle and sweet words.
Music to my ears.

My writings of poetry feels like
saying sorry before I threw the rock.
Kissing before stabbing.

My poetry is raw
and unfiltered.
A gentle ray of sunshine,
that also burns at the touch.
Yet you can’t move because it’s so entrancing,
you know it doesn’t mean to hurt you
it just does.
A kind of unintentional love bomb.

My poetry is a reflection of who I am,
my aspirations and goals.
Struggles and flaws,
challenges and obstacles,
but also my good moments.
Where I truly feel alive.

It’s also a reflection of others through me.
My parents and family.
Famous poets, authors, musicians.
People I look up to.
I am just a filtered version of them.
While still being authentically myself.

Ultimately my poetry is who I am.
Painfully tender
and
Sourly sweet.
As I am all of the contradictions within myself.