A Poem About Poetry

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I write to feel.
 
I turn drops of ink
And twenty six letters
Into stories
Of a love that was bitter
Of a world that was broken
Or a sadness so deep
It almost suffocated me.
 
I grip a pencil in my hand
Instead of a rusted blade
And carve words into paper
Instead of scars into my skin.
 
I’ve learned that words
Ease my heart
That they calm the blood
Rushing through my veins
And slowly
Quiet the dangerous thoughts that float in my mind.
 
When I write poems about the bruises,
That nobody can see
And about the sleepless nights
When tears stained the pillows
And fists gripped bed sheets
With the words ‘I miss You’ stretching into an echo
I hope he will read them.
 
I hope the stupid boy
With the pretty eyes
And fake promises
That forgot the definition of forever
Will know he hurt me.
 
When I write poems about flipping through textbooks
Five times a week
At three in the morning
With red pen marks covering every paper
And useless notes mocking my panic
And the hope of a passed class fading with every second
I wish  they will read them.
 
I wish the high school student
Questioning their existence
With failure hanging above them
And fear burrowing in their bones
Will know that they are not alone.
 
When I write poems about the anger
That blinds me in red
Because women are suffering
While a country cries equality
And men become monsters
That I am taught to fear
I hope she will read them.
 
I hope the girl
Who was taught silence
And obedience
Who couldn’t fight with car keys
And who became a statistic
Will know that I will speak for her.
 
When I write poems about depression
That threatens to drown me
Of a sadness so bitter
It poisons me slowly
Making me hate everyone
Who got to be happy
I wish that anyone will read them.
 
I wish that the friends and family
That I might leave behind
Who will need answers and reasons
Who will questions their own lives
And blame themselves
Will be able to forgive me.
 
I write to feel.
I write to escape.
I write to release
A growling monster
Inside of me
Wishing to destroy
And hoping to kill
With a weapon we call
Emotion.
 

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