The days have blended into a poetic haze
of mismatched syllables, hanging participles
accented with a hint of discourage.
My purpose use to be therapeutic.

Each rhyme I wrote was a comma in my run-on sentences.
And for awhile, I could breathe. Each breath became less wheezy, uneven and strained.
After I gathered enough air, I dared to speak.
Me? How could I even have the audacity to think!?

To my disbelief, my words didn't fall on deaf ears.
The anxiety, shame, depression and fear woven
into every poem made me familiar in the minds of strangers.
These strangers made me feel human.

With quickness that's comparable to the slickness of a parable
I was ****** from a catapult into the essence of prose.
However, the latency between the beginning of my literary journey
and the discovery of my gift for poetry was afflicting my sensibility.

I succumbed to the bullying from hyperboles
and the taunting of iambic pentameter.
At times I was afraid to talk to neighbors
for fear of narrative structure overhearing.  

Now, I am wandering in a fog
though the hills of unpublished work,
echoed only by the crunch of "not good enough" beneath my feet.
This was therapeutic.  Now I use it to influence my movements.