when i was born,
i was a snivelling little pink wrinkled thing
like everyone else, i'd imagine
but the first years of my life were hell.
i could not form coherent words,
could not share the letters thrumming in my veins
could not share the poetry that infected my blood,
the writing that leeched at my soul
so i screamed
and i cried
and i got angry
until i could speak
and then i talked,
with a babbling lisp,
using words beyond my grade level
i read like a starving man,
devouring the words
in a fit of hunger
and i wrote in staccato intervals,
unreliable and unsatisfying -
little forays into the realm of short stories,
tiny little rhymes of poetry
the most i ever got
was creative writing in class
but i never quite realized what i was missing
until it hit me, and epiphany -
but more like a truck to the face.
i discovered this place.
hesitant and painfully new
to the thought of decent structure,
i wrote a poem.
it wasn't really that good.
it rhymed, and seemed to delve into
faerytales, goblins and the stories my sister read me,
when i was young and naïve.
but then i reached out
and my blood sung
and i smudged ink to my fingertips
and discovered poetry,
no matter how many scoff at the thought.
i became an author,
hungry for words,
leaking bits of my soul
into pixelated letters on a screen
but it's better than nothing,
hell, it's better than everything.
when i feel the familiar itching in my hands,
when my head becomes heavy with words,
when my laptop blinks to life in the ice-cold air at 3 o'clock on a sunday morning,
i can speak.