Poetry and I,

We are inseparable. 

We are long lost friends

Who found each other

Inside cracks of foaming hate

And melting sorrow. 

 

Poetry and I, 

We are connected by truth. 

We don't barricade

Ourselves in secrets.

We  barricade ourselves in 

Poetic verses

And sing-along words

Only we can remember. 

 

Poetry and I, 

We go way back to fifth grade.

I did not know, no, 

I knew but did not

Want to be consumed by each

Ember of Passion 

That grew between us. 

 

I was afraid, too, 

To know Poetry when shades

Of demons chased, 

Hunted, and condemned

My life. Poetry

Found me lying inside the  

Library of worlds. 

 

She taught me the truth

Beneath each hidden secret.

She taught me the truth

Beneath each damsel.

Poetry taught me passion

Inside heaven buried in

                                      Hell. 

I lost someone close

To death's temptations. I cried,

Cried in regret, envy;

I cried in pity.

Demons chased me because I stopped

Having hope, I sought

The same offer of impulse

To  welcomingly accept Hell

For what it stood for: 

Truth's reality. 

Poetry knew more than she

Let on. She knew by

Avoidance and fear, 

The fire within me was

About to go out. 

 

She knew and felt this.

She told me, "Pain exists, yes. 

You suffer not just 

The loss of your friend, 

But you also suffer from 

The loss of yourself,

But you must know that 

All of what you hate stems from

What is losing its 

Embers; the hope, the 

Fire that had brought you back home. 

Right now, you are lost. 

Please do not worry. 

We will walk this road as one. 

You won't be alone. 

Your fire will alight

And you won't need worlds for warmth.

No. You will create

A much newer world

For you to thrive and live in

Before you pass on."

 

Poetry and I, 

We are inseparable, 

We are connected. 

 

We are long lost friends

Who met at a young age and

Will stay together

Despite how much we

Continue to age, for she

                                       And I live. 

 

The passion, the moments of

Reocurring fears

mean nothing with her. 

 

Poetry and I, 

We live and fight our battles 

                                             together.

Poetry and I,

We became flames together

And warmed the world.