The Poet Knows

The poet knows the sweetness in her lover’s tone as if it were her own.

The poet knows that sadness comes in seasons and waves and that to deny it space to be is to deny the truth of who she is.

The poet goes over and over and over her words, searching for the primordial sea from which they flow.

The poet knows sentences are like rivers, phrases are like streams and questions paddle back to the source.

The poet knows questions and answers arise from the same source.

The poet knows she is the air she breathes. Each vibrating particle that becomes her being. She’s the earth and the stones and the stars and exists so far beyond these things so the poet knows to speak is really to listen.

The poet knows her life is unique.

The poet sees that history repeats until it is really seen for what lies beneath.

The poet’s eyes run deep.

The poet writes her dreams.

The poet analyzes her experience while she sleeps. The poet never sleeps.

The poet reaches into her soul and pulls out the words of her ancestors like knots in a coiled rope.

The poet finds her peace in meditation not in dope. The poet doesn’t smoke.

The poet lingers like smoke with fingers and toes. She feels beyond her senses using words to garner hope and drops seeds only when she’s called to and when she’s called the poet knows.

The poet knows her fear propels her to break ropes. The poet loves her fear. The poet knows that her emotions are her signals to let her in on what’s to come and where she’s been and that the moment holds a frequency so deep with such propensity to understand its origin that she finds comfort in intensity and never hides her hand.

The poet holds her stone. The poet never throws.

The poet listens close. The poet knows that empathy is not relating her experience to another but crossing time and space to become another’s mind, another’s face.

The poet exists beyond the boundaries of personal, mental space because the poet knows her essence and your essence are the same.

The poet knows what you’re thinking but the poet doesn’t judge because she knows that your pain is hers just as much. So, the poet sees you, breathes you, bereaves you and she heals. She heals.

The poet knows.

The poet knows you like she knows herself.

The poet dances in her sadness and she loves the way she looks. The poet knows she’ll be remembered for changing all the books not by re-writing words but by transforming readers.

The poet knows she’s alive to be alive.

The poet knows.

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