There it is. The spark. The heart racing, heavy breathing, if I don’t write this line of poetry my body might explode spark. Closely followed by intense examination of every single syllable to determine if what I think is poetry is something that someone else will think is poetry and will they shun me from the poetic society of poets if they disagree? Hah. Followed by slight laughter at my own cunning demise because that’s the thing about poets. Whether you call yourself that or not, you’re a part of this creative community. You’ve decided that you have words to share and **** it you demand to be heard and then maybe you wonder if what you’re feeling isn’t all that big of a deal at all. Maybe it doesn’t deserve a line, a phrase, or even a poetic thought.

But it does. Because poetry is not poetry if it’s censored and molded and charmed like a snake into fitting into someone else’s landscape. Poetry is not poetry if you don’t feel a piece of your soul being exposed with every cascading turn of phrase. Poetry is not poetry if it is a robotic reiteration & regurgitation of what someone expects you to feel. Poetry is not poetry if you don’t believe in what you’re writing.

So write the things you want. Write the things that are hard to say. The things that choke you and trip you up and expose scars and flaws in your physique. Write the things that are begging to be written. I promise not to laugh. I promise not to report you to the creative commission for poor writing. Write the things that demand to be written, because you demand to tell them.

There’s a lot of questions I want to ask.
Did you love her as much as you claim to love me?
Did you ever really love me at all?
Is convenience and accessibility a foundation that prevents doubts, temptations, and storms of life from dragging you back to a sea of discontentment?

No.
I don’t believe they are.

But you’ve made the choice.
You’ve chosen convenient and accessible and you’ve committed to memory the tender moments when love felt genuine.
But soon the winds will shift. Maybe I’ll be the one to float away from my own poorly constructed foundation.
And you’ll be left asking,
Did you really love me? Or was I just convenient?

I wish you’d write something, so I could know how you’re really doing.

“You’ll feel so much better,
When the meds start to kick in.
Just give it some time,
And keep your mind open.”

I’m kicking in doors and
I’m breaking glass dishes
And none of it brings me
Any closer to wishes.

Of healing. Of wholeness.
Of anything sane.
Of something, just anything,
To scrub out the pain.

No line of poetry, no act of god.
No deep breathing method or trip far abroad,
Will pull me from these depths that I’m in.
I can’t start to get better
if the meds never kicked in.

We all grew into our ears and our teeth
Our opinions and our feet
Our clothes and chubby cheeks
We grew out of our music tastes
And other peoples mouths
Learned what it was like to love and be loved
Learned what hate looks like
What scars on hearts instead of arms looked like
We grew out our colored hair
And washed career dreams like astronaut and superhero
Down the drain
With someone else's sweat
Got used to sleeping in someone else's bed
Burned our memories of them
We grew into our faces
And out of our blind faith
We lead more then we follow
We fall in love with the concept of tomorrow
We learn the ability to bully instead of being bullied
And finally learn to rise above it all
We learned where we come from cannot change
But we can
We learned the city isn't always beautiful
That there are problems and trauma in silence
That sometimes the most peaceful thing you can do is scream until it makes sense to you

One line down
Only one to go
A waiting game
And a hopeful soul

One line down
One line stays
It won’t be there tomorrow
It isn’t there today