Poetry

When a pen rested softly in her hand, life flowed through her arm onto the page, creating something from the chaos she held at bay.

“Oh, how a pen was meant to be held in her hands,” her best friends would say.

Yet, she was also born to carry a sword, destroying the life that she brought into the world, guaranteeing a burial of honor she'd never asked for.

“Oh! How much she would've loved to be forgotten,” her best friends would say.

Are you looking for the secrets that are held deep within my eyes? the darkness that lingers far across my soul? or the fires that run deep and wild through my own mind?

Are you searching for these things that I hide? these things that I fear? these things that I find, deep within the reflection of your own eyes?

Could you explain it all to me? how you're not staring at me? how I'm not staring at you? and how it makes me so afraid, that I just look away from myself and you?

When I write poetry I let my brain lie to my arm, which lies to my hand, which lies to my pen, which lies to my paper, creating these words I'd never say or even mean.

Yet, when I write poetry I still let my spaces tell my tabs, which tells my marks, which tells my pauses, which tells my breaks, something that I'd never say but I really do mean.