And called it Poetry

Where does poetry come from?

Some say it stems from past. It's words we were never able to say in the moment built up into beauty because diamonds are only noticeable when found in the rough. Poets' lives are not easy. I am a poet. Poets' lives are beautiful. I am a poet.

Poetry comes from late night conversations with ghosts. Poetry is haunting. This is why it wakes me with a start late at night and forces me to pull pages close to my chest like blankets. It is communion with spirits who want nothing more than that their story be told.

Poetry is a haunted house. I am a haunted house. I have doors that I know not to open. I have rooms filled with mirrors adorned by sheets I don't have the courage to remove. I have rooms with rustling sounds that I'm still afraid to open. I don't have skeletons in my closets. I have graveyards. I have headstones with epitaphs written in iambic lines so that anyone saying the incantations will necessarily resemble the rhythm of a heartbeat. My poetry is a heartbeat; this is why I feel sick when I skip a line or lose my rhythm. My poetry is a heartbeat – my words are how I perform CPR. No wonder I feel so out of breath every time I perform. Resuscitation is a word that doesn't pass past lips easily. This is why I sometimes confuse my poetry with hyperventilation. The diaphragm should only expand as much as a mind.

I am a poet.

I am still trying to figure out
where I come from and
where I'm going.

I just hope
that my heartbeat
will stay long enough
to open all my doors,
expose my mirrored ghosts,
and figure out
where this all came from
just so I can forget about it,
and focus on where to go
in-stead.