Speak, My Crazy Mind.

              I am a poet.

As the words dash from my beautiful mind, I Know it !

      Poetry is a way to find oneself, OURSELVES, and myself.

     They say when your depressed, you're obsessed - with damaging yourself. 

   Thankfully, instead, I am reading love poems, classic poems, slam poems straight off the shelf.

 

 A blade on my precious mask is not an existence, I desire to be a part of  because without poetry...

  how  would testify the thoughts that would not go elsewhere ? Breathe.

 

     It hurts the most with the people so close to you  make you feel dead.

   Oh dear, is that fear ?

   Since I have short hair or that I just don't care about a god damn thing you tell me.

  Well, you see  poetry is I.  You cannot assault or assassinate  poetry.  You cannot take it away from me.

         

   Here it doesn't matter if  I am gay or straight or even if I'm 8. If I am black or white.

            Or that I don't party at night.

           Alright ?

                

   I rather have words that make me live, show the world what I have to give. Here as well as now, I been treated like a sink because no one cares what   I think.

  •            You want me to fill  my body with  a drink ?

 

  •            Bully  me so I shrink ?

 

  •            Hell no. I will stay with poetry, and you and your backside can go.       

           

 

              

             I am a poet and I know it.

          The tears placed on my face show it.

         The list of things that I can fight for 

      in poetry is so many. I excused the novel of things I wanted to die for because  there is not any. 

      More importantly, I am wearied. I am tired of being used, abused , confused. 

  They look at me and say " you're just a teenager, back in my da-"

           Well, this is my day, you mother-

         Find a reason as to why poetry is boring (there is none) because while you were snoring.

         My core continued pouring words

         Put the gun away.

        Oh, no not today.

        Echo these words.

        My death-day will  not be today.

           

Exhale. Let, The air bring life to those you can't breathe because  I can.

     

      

     I am not silent.

     I will not hide my thoughts.

     This is my day, Poetry is mine.

    I am  happy for poetry because what doesn't kill you, makes you stronger. It makes 

   me breathe for a little longer.

- Harmony B. 2016. 

 

 

           

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Guide that inspired this poem: 

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