Poetry wasn’t a choice.
It showed up at my door
like a small, rabid animal
I needed to nurture.
Like a scar,
like my eye color.
Before book sales,
before applause,
before anyone gave a damn.
I was jaded by color.
Sunsets weren’t cute.
They were edible —
pink and orange,
soul food.
It burned my tongue,
made me breathe deep,
made me want to capture them
with words.
Pain had a smell —
lonely, bitter,
like stale beer,
familiar before it made sense.
The world rushed at me —
too loud,
too sharp,
too close.
Poetry was how I survived it.
Pen and paper,
faithful and warm.
I don’t write for followers
or fame.
I write because
a blank page
was never an option.