Poetry wasn’t a choice.
It showed up at my door
like a small, rabid animal
I needed to nurture.
Like a scar,
like my eye color.
Before book sales,
before applause,
before anyone gave a damn.
I was jaded by color.
Sunsets weren’t cute.
They were edible —
pink and orange,
soul food.
It burned my tongue,
made me breathe deep,
made me want to capture them
with words.
Pain had a smell —
lonely, bitter,
like stale beer,
familiar before it made sense.
The world rushed at me —
too loud,
too sharp,
too close.
Poetry was how I survived it.
Pen and paper,
faithful and warm.
I don’t write for followers
or fame.
I write because
a blank page
was never an option.
The last stanza is brilliant. Love it and the poem. Great work!
Thank you.
Brilliantly penned, Thomas. Preach my brother, preach! You nailed this out of the park. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thank you, my friend.
Awesome.
Indeed, it’s that little angel/demon upon our shoulder, compelling us to write something, anything, to relieve the pressure of wanting to say something to the void. Life?Love?Pain?Loss? All of it.
Your write is terrific. I think we all write “for ourselves”. yet to have someone acknowledge our words does mean a lot. It makes us feel like it does matter, after all.
Thank you. I agree…it is nice when someone acknowleges us.
Excellent ink & Not a single drop wasted .. Neville 😎👍
Thank you, my friend.
Yep. That’s just the way it is. We create because that’s how we deal with the world.
so true.
That last stanza…is everything. It’s never about accolades. It’s because we must. Damn…
So true.