Maybe Because I Need Words to Survive, Maybe.

Maybe it was my realization that placement of words and spaces could literally shake a nation,

Wake a generation, stir a congregation, or transform no way into more ways. 

 

Maybe it was my realization that no one really knows,

That we all go along a road just hoping the truth is what we were told,

And those of us who are more bold decide to break out of the mold and 

Journey into worlds unknown in search of the untold. 

 

Maybe it was my realization that there are no good people, 

But there are also no bad people. Just humans. We’re the beasts of nature.

How wild. Crazy that we were created in the Creator’s image, imagine what he sees

When we’re a village of villains. 

 

Maybe it was my realization that He who created me is okay with my questions.

He’d question more so if I didn’t because HE KNOWS that I’m a curious creation, 

kind of complicated with a formula beyond typical equations, not an automated robot

who conducts days redundantly, too busy to pause and think about what everything really means. 

He’s fine with the fact that my mind wandered miles away from home years ago

And has yet to find any motivation to turn around and return. 

 

Maybe it was my realization that conforming to the norm is another form of slavery,

That my biggest nightmare was silently sitting, quietly permitting the assembling of creative minds

In a crate to die on an assembly line in order to make my mind resemble that of those around me. 

 

Maybe it was my realization that poetry is life.

Poetry is also death, and joy, and peace, and bliss, and chaos, and sickness, and fear

And forgiveness and everything in between, and between the colleged ruled lines, no rules

applied.

 

Maybe it was my realization. Or maybe it was something that held way more divine weight.

Either way, I realized that I couldn’t live life without a way of escape. 

 

Words are my Narnia, my nightlight in the darkness of 3AM.

Words are my thoughts’ playground.

Words are my awkward jokes that only I understand.

Words are my sit-ins and peaceful protests.

Words are my gun and my bullets.

Words are my tears for lost brothers whom I never got to meet.

Words are my aspirations and unknown dreams.

Words are my blanket, and my pillow.

Words are mine.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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