it was


nursery rhymes 

read as we fell asleep 

 cinquains, haikus

A, B, A, B, C

projects typed 

fresh from a word document 

prompts and clear curricula

i was afraid to display my fangs and 

sharp claws when i 

was being graded on how well i could 

compare life to the passing of seasons 

i wrapped up each poem with a moral

of the story 

a good ending, a silver lining

i resolved every lingering doubt with

a reason 


it is

fundamentally unstable 

now that it is up to me 

what should i put in words and what 

should remain a mystery ?

i lost my rhythm and precious rhymes

 and sweet similes and replaced them 

with raucous rambling,  nervous white noise

i write because 

i have to, because i 

have no other choice 

i am less concerned with spreading beauty and 

more with having a voice 


it will be 

my comforting, time wasting

pursuit,  i will 

type and type and type between 

shifts and

scatter lengthy phrases in between my 

lecture notes 

 one day

i will recognize my accidental, undercover

hobby, go further than i ever thought i would-

i could grow a voice, sharp and shrill on stage

and finally make room 

for the stories i've wanted to tell

i can make it fiery and beautiful

melt my detached uncompromising ice

creating wishes out of stitches 

and life from a coping device 



Need to talk?

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