Born Like This

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.