balls of flaming gas in the sky hold nothing to this ink-black blood that leaks words

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
and reading

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.

and then
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.

and now, 
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.

The End

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