Carving My Soul

I carve myself open with words,  

sharp edges turning soft with ink,  

phrases spilling like untrained rivers,  

wild, unbounded, spilling into light.  

My metaphors are stubborn children,  

refusing to tidy up their rooms,  

but they remain mine, unruly, alive,  

and I adore their reckless noise.  

Sometimes, my lines stand naked,  

quivering with vulnerability's raw breath,  

sometimes they wear armor too heavy,  

shielding truths they’re afraid to show.  

This is the language I was born in,  

a dialect made of scraped knees,  

midnight whispers, the ache of longing—  

it hums in me like a second pulse.  

I braid the sky into my stanzas,  

smuggling sunlight between shadowed doubts.  

Poetry has taught me to hunger,  

to ache and still call it creation.   

Each word sharpens the quiet chisel,  

revealing the form I hope to become—  

less jagged, more whole, always reaching  

toward the song I'm trying to sing.