Poetry is a hard life. Writing is a hard life. Art, in any way, shape or form is a hard life. But we do it because we feel it in our souls. We might not necessarily be good at it. It might not be able to earn us a living, and all the words in our heart may threaten to tear us apart, or to overflow and drown the world. It may seem like too much of a burden, to have the power of the pen, to feel like you're drifting out on an ocean of emotions that flicker so quickly past you don't have time to grasp it and put it on paper, thoughts and feelings too beautiful to ever be captured by words. And so many times we want to walk away, to stop, to give up. But I think what makes it worth it isn't the result. It doesn't matter what happens in the end. Whether the words are clumsy or not. Whether anybody publishes it or not. Whether or not anyone else approves, even. It doesn't matter in the end. What matters is the journey. And honestly, for people like us? The journey itself is enough.

if anyone cares enough
to ask:
“why poetry?”
i'll breathe deep

and i'll tell them about Keats.
i’ll tell them that his was the first poem
i truly ever read.
really understood.

because despite years of schooling,
i hadn’t connected with anyone else’s work,
and it was solely because he wrote what i couldn’t.
the things i couldn't yet form into cohesive thoughts.

i’ll tell them about my english teacher,
who wrote the book that ignited my love for reading,
who read the first draft of every poem i wrote,
and every poem i’ve written since.

who encouraged me
endlessly,
(even if those drafts were entirely unreadable).
and i’ll tell them that i owe her my craft.

i’ll tell them about all of my failed narratives
that still sit incomplete on my computer,
and i’ll tell them about all of the finished
and polished poetry in comparison.

so if one day someone cares enough to ask me:
“why poetry?”
i’ll tell them that i stumbled upon it,
but have chosen it since.

most importantly,
i’ll tell them that it’s what allowed me to dig
up all that i have buried.
feel all the things that i have kept hidden

underneath.

i'll never escape it.

the redness of his blood
the eyes that stare back at me in the mirror.

i still bleed the same as him,
still write with his pen,
i am still his daughter,

despite trying so hard not to be.

I am a poem in motion, in itself-
I strike an empty canvas; drawing out inspiration from
the library of experiences sitting on a majestic shelf,
“what picture shall I craft,” to showcase an unheard story,
an unsung song- “and what lines shall I once again cross”

Poetry has no bounds;- its never short of words,
its expression is wild; tamed by the artist’s pen- my sword
to fight against the marching violence in my mind.
My words- are all a part of me; they separate me from the
entire world, as I watch everything unfold into the paper
where I write down my thoughts.

[the poet-
is an outsider; a broken writer, who gets his fix from
his literature art. It’s an addiction, and a cure to my everything-
yet it’s still nothing. It is here, it is there, it is everywhere; still
it comes from nowhere.

[a poem-
are her words tender, but also so raw. They are the length of her
elegant body, they are short of breath- she is my answer, she is
my many questions, she’s a truth made out of my lies. She is
everything to my nothing

No poem is a mistake; every poem is perfect-
written by imperfect people.