my poetry holds all of my chaos.
when i look for the net to catch
fire, and ice, and shrapnel, and bile –
i am held whole by poetry.
when betrayals are streamed
solely on synaptic feeds i grasp
not for the words,
but the space around them.
so i sit held by poetry.
accepting that the effect of living
is also in part an acceptance
and
that with each step
i am in peril
and living
at the same time,
i refill with poetry.
when my heart stops beating
even for an eternal second
and hope leaves no note
of encouragement.
i embrace poetry.
since my bones
and my blood
are held together by the words
of others; invisible to me
yet a part of their law,
so then i must read poetry.
the story is always so clear
as it hits the page.
and as real as my fingers
tapping across this keyboard
still
i have no assurance in a resulting truth.
worse still,
out of mind
and hidden in posted spaces
beyond my constant view,
is distressing to me.
sitting with
this tension
ironically, feels like I’ve
been
stealing from myself.
