poetry children

Poetic essay
Before I write a poem,
I think.
Every day,
A child is born from imagination.
Every night,
A child is put to sleep inside inspiration.
Every poem,
Comes from the birth of an idea.
And this poem was born, 
From a wandering mind.
This poem was born as a child.
I named him poet child.
His parents were pen and paper,
His brother was a book,
His sister was a magazine,
Aunts were dictionaries,
Uncles were thesauruses,
Grandma an almanac,
Grandpa a newspaper,
And he was an 
A lousy little essay with no editing,
And he was weak.
His body was weak from head to toe,
His structure was plagiarized,
His nose grew with every lie,
And he was just a child with no thesis,
He was just a little young.
12, maybe 13
His body was made up of 5 or 7,
He looked 17 or 18
Sounds 15
Acts 20,
And the 5'0 was funny,
Funny using rubber AK64's and vinyl k9's,
Trying to erase the poetry children of his time 
Behind enemy lines riding away in
G7s and v'6s looking like #2 mechanical pencils
With graphite wheels,
Shooting facts at idiots,
Riding away
In the hands of historians 
Fighting a war on battlefields of loose leaf paper 
escaping in the 
Honda history essay 2014,
Complete with 
Black Civil lights, 
the backseats of Harriet tubman,
Formatted with MLA 
And synthetic prayers.
And the 5'0s tried to enslave this gifted boy,
This poetic essay.
But they need 9'O's and some white out,
Because His history is written in 24/7 ink 
on final copies Under that magic marker,
On a police report. 
And he's still hanging around people
That break the rules of literature.
People that grow poet trees,
And smoke similes,
He burns apostrophe shaped leaves 
and let's the ashes 
form line breaks.
His wife is lost in spaces 
of inverted syntax,
His children are paragraphs.
Friends are sentences,
Enemies are funnels, 
he's pouring his young tears down 
down tunnels into a pool of mistakes,
Operating hate,
Giving fuel to his future.
And he's turning into a 
Now, everything he looks at is inspiration,
The smell of fresh air is a metaphor,
The sound of birds are an allusion,
The trees he sees are symbols,
The touch of time is a rhyme 
personified by word count
On the next line,
The sight of beautiful 
is an isolated stanza,
And he is turning into a poem. 
He is breathing poetry.
He is living poetry.
He is thinking poetry.
He is writing poetry,
Born from an essay,
He is a poet,
With the body of a poem.


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