My Poetic Story


It’s hard to explain how life can change

From one sentence to the next.

I’ve never understood how the world can become so different

in such a small interval.

It’s like pancakes,

the way things flip;

but nevertheless,

words can change the world,

a principle I still have not fully grasped

but am becoming more accustomed to.

My poetic story has not been a pretty one.

I started clunky,

like a fawn learning to walk.

I tripped over similes and end rhymes

and finding my own voice.

And every time I’d be



to finding myself in the pencil smears on my left hand,

some great change,

an earthquake of sorts,

would unapologetically throw me off course

back to square one.

I know that life is rarely a smooth sea,

And my jilted, choppy verses illustrate this.

Sometimes I felt like I could never get what I wanted.

I asked for friends,

I got notebooks.

I asked for beauty,

I got pens.

I asked for a boyfriend,

I got a laptop.

I’ve been sad.

I’ve been angry.

I’ve questioned my faith.

I took extra mascara to school to be ready for the next breakdown.

They always came at the most inconvenient times.

I didn’t ask for these things;

They came uninvited.

But through it all I’ve learned

That the road to victory

is not a ski lift magically pulling you up.

It’s a struggle;

It’s cold and crooked,

and the actual victory

is not always a flag waving for you

or the crowd at the end of the finish line.



is just getting through the day.

But even through the bleakest times,

There were sparks of hope--

Signals that told me to keep going.


Words were wonderful.

Words made everything okay.

Suddenly I understood why I got those pens,

and those notebooks,

and that laptop;

They were the tools I needed

to fill the holes in the bottom of my boat.

They were the sails that I adjusted

to meet every new slap in the face.

They were the freshwater that sustained me

when I was lost in the ocean.

And words,




helped me learn

to solve things myself.

Get up.

Get out.

Go and do.

Work for things to get better.

Make an effort.


Stop praying for God to give you a sign.

Go find your own.

And use your words.

Always use your words.

My poetic story has not been a pretty one.

It’s a struggle.

It’ not a straight climb to the top.

“It’s not a cry that you hear at night.

It’s not someone who has seen the light.

It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.”

But it’s worth it,

and when you reach the peak





the view.


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