My Wings

 Words were just words before poetry,
trails of letters, strings of sentences,
No rhythm, no rhyme, no meaning.  
The voice that was mine
was a bucket of gray paint,
and I was not content, 
 For within me I knew
there was so much color and light
just dying to come out. 
There was, there is, so much to talk about
There are clouds, there are stars,
there is love,
My head swam with thoughts and feelings that
just needed to come out. 
But, I was tentative
I started off
with only small dots
on the great canvas of poetry 
little phrases, small thoughts
hastily scribbled into a spiral notebook 
But that was all it took.
The color was out
the light was out
Beams of it shone through
I have a new voice now, and it glows
I can arrange sentences into bouqets (however sloppy they may be)
I make jewelry with words (however mismatched they may be)
The empowerment of poetry courses through me
 I am awake
  
I am alive
  And words are now my wings

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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