30/30. 04/13

30/30 Nowhere near 25
Sometimes, I wish my voice
would gain the strength I thought I had at 25
or even 20,
those numbers that seemed to define growing up
rather than growing into ourselves.
My voice was so distinct,
not intimidated
by the raspiness of another poet's journey
or the ink that another poet bled,
and it flowed
in front of crowds
like a breath of fresh air.
It got muffled,
underneath the wrong sheets of paper,
crumbled and tossed,
almost discarded,
filling up the cracks of my memories
like shreds of last year's bills.
My voice was squeaky,
ackwardly out of pitch
and comfortably me,
oozing out of my vocal chords
with a matching laugh
that meant life was grander
than this moment of sadness.
But I buried it,
and watched it almost die
among the wreckage of ratched choices,
pushed it so far down until
even I couldn't hear myself think,
let along speak
and the only one who heard me
were the pages of of my journal.
Poetry is speaking me,
even when I only read,
or stand just far enough out of the spotlight
b/c, my voice is still struggling
to be heard.