I am a poet, I twist words to look like images, I spit lines that paint pictures. I cascade living
waters from my mouth like waterfalls…. I build not destroy. I resurrect dead imagery and call
them masterpieces.. I walk a thousand miles to pen a million poems.. to touch but one soul….
I breathe this… I write this… I live this… I love this… I hate this…
I live life outside the box. Never quite learned to color inside the lines, choosing instead to live
beyond the confines of others’ thoughts of me… you see.. .because my own.. were already
so negative.. Never quite feeling good enough, pretty enough, smart enough.. not enough of
anything to be noticed.. Living on the sidelines inside bars constructed by minutes of what will
they think of me thoughts… and so I write…. Poetry became a manifestation of my lifeline… I
breathe this…. I am this…
I am that 14 year old girl with a child.. staring down the barrel of a gun called life… stoic..
refusing to be statistically placed in glass houses with falling chandeliers.. I am superwoman
consistently conquering any semblance of weakness, now I no longer know what to do with
my emotions.At year 32 I am that 14 year old girl again.. scared… lost.. embarking upon a new
path that finds me alone….disconnected… fears resurrected and bloody… Past scars now open
wounds found bottomless pits of emotions and… I drown…
I am broken., a shattered dusty mirror forgotten. Once so beautiful, now just pieces of what used
to be.. No longer adored, now used for quick lipstick applications in smokey club restrooms
and in the living rooms and bedrooms of strange bedfellows… I am cracked and I honestly can’t
remember a time when I wasn’t….the smooth reflection and sterling silver lines were apparently
a figment of my imagination…the cracks soon turned to shards of missing glass and the rusted
silver outlines nicked all that came close…I hate this..
I am a work in contradictions.. wanting, needing, yearning to be seen yet choosing instead to
stay behind the brightest star hoping that my shadow will eclipse its right side. Wishing to hold
my thoughts deep inside yet allowing this pen to rape me over and over again only to pimp my
words out to the highest bidder…I am far from average, but to fit in I have found that brilliance
has to reside in trash bins and liquor bottles.. Prophets must spit lies turned into faraway fairy
tells and poets have to work to eat.. I am strong yet fragily walk towards the glare of mediocrity
in the guise of excellence..
I am a storyteller. Afraid to tell the story of the beauty and pain that lies deep within me…hiding
behind twisted words and painted images…hoping that the past can get past the past so now can
see the future….
I breathe this. I write this. I love this. I live this. I hate this. I am this.. I am poetry