words are the particles of flesh that line my bones and keep my blood caged in body.

i intend to throw myself into the world and i need my skin’s protection;

i need writing to comfort the blow if i were to fall from the life

i am cutting through like the wings of an airplane to air.

the world i have constructed for myself is fragile-

it is like walking on weak floors knowing at any time i may break through the ceiling.

but at the core of all i have made is the ability to write poetry,

the beauty and strength of metaphors and rhetoric,

waiting to catch me if anything were to go wrong and prop me back up at my home

at the top of the earth.

poetry not only breathes air into my body and shocks back to life my heart,

it is the force that keeps them going when i am healthy.

it is constant, calming, continuous-

unlike people, words will never have the power to break me,

and unlike objects, it does not have the power to be broken.

i am surviving off the power of writing.

i am married to the concept of translating thoughts to paper.

i recite, “may nothing but death do us part,” with certainty,

for i know, without writing, i could not be alive.