Small Black Couch (Why I Write Poetry)


I could lie down on a small black couch

to fill the air with all my petty cares.

Or keep it bottled up inside

and let smolder,

until my face is lined, grey, and older.

Instead I use a pen, blank paper

to strip away sadness, fear and doubt.

From these bare bones I create art,

rhymes and verses form poems from my heart.

Words stitch together emotional gashes,

from pain comes meaning, 

a phoenix rising from the ashes.


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