I was born:

With a notebook in my arms,

With words swirling inside of my skull,

With ink flowing through my veins,

With a pen in place of my heart.

For seventeen long years,

my voice cracked

Every time:

I stood up in front of the class

I tried to order my lunch

I responded to someone's question

But when I write my words:

My voice is a steady.

My hands: unwavering.

My thoughts are placid.

The syllables tangled in my vocal cords are finally freed

And when my mind is numb:

Poetry.

Poetry.

Poetry.

Because when I feel nothing at all,

I have my words.