Sometimes I can only speak in poetry.
I don’t try to rhyme, I don’t try to pull it out in threads of metaphor and miracle and add sparkle to my words like sun glistening on a pond. I don’t.
And sometimes I can’t speak at all. But my fingers know the keys like they are a part of me and when they meet, the words make magic as they flood the page with thoughts I’ve kept entrapped.
I don’t have to ask for words. They live inside of me. They breathe for me when my lungs forget the motion. When I feel stepped on and alone they come to rescue me, they say, “This is real”.
When I feel joy, so momentary the elation of experiences that come to stay for just a while, they say, “Enjoy, we’ll write later”.
I never asked to be a poet but it’s a path that’s carried me along it as I’ve moved from one day to another. I can’t imagine how I’ve arrived here… it’s so odd. That every event, every smile and laugh and tear and bruise and person left behind has brought me here exactly to this moment in time.
With no idea where I’m going the poetry fuels me. It says, “you may not have a mission but you have a way. You have a way to express. You have a gift. You have been created and it’s your job to keep creating. You are a poet and a poet you shall be. Memories will come and go but words, you can keep.”
And see a poet never sleeps. For, when I sleep I dream. I live another life and the whole landscape is poetry. The walls are metaphors, the people are ideas, the movement is creativity. I am grateful to remember the details that help me live in this world with just a bit more clarity and direction.
I don’t know where I’m going or even really who I am or what I’m building but I know that I’m a poet because no matter what I do when I feel strong emotion, words and art and images come through and song enlightens my being and it’s really just my truth that I cannot be in this world without creating as I move.