When I speak, it's poetry.
It's not that spoken word rhythmic
call and response that moves you.
It's the subtle floodgates of tears
when you are still enough to hear them fall.
When I step, it's poetry,
b/c verses break underneath the weight of my existence
louder than imitation red bottoms.
When I love, it's poetry
writing itself across the imprint of another's heartbeat
and sharing that momentary ink.
As I live, it's poetry
lettering its way on a journey
far greater than any collection of journals can hold.
Who am I sinks deeper than any inkwell
and bubbles up faster than sequestered emotions.
I hid between the trees of your perceptions
and the leaves of my fears
wondering if you will see the beauty
beyond the passion
that screams secretly
for you to look a little close
and you will see me: poetry
dancing between dreams
and sitting at the edge of your bed,
waiting for the sunrise of new ideas
to kiss the pillow where you sleep
and so startle you
until the only sound you hear
is the keyboard clicking
me out on your screen.
Yes, I am poetry.
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