i wanna thank you,
coz,
i feel like writing poetry again,
and i thought that i didn't write poetry anymore,
i thought i left that phase of my life behind,
with mash games and middle school crushes,
i moved past poetry and all suchness,
past the rushes of blood,
past the flushes of cheeks,
past adolescent blushes,
yet i find myself red in face again,
and i find myself,
a little unable to express,
myself,
and its rare for me to be at a loss for words,
which is why i write,
or why i used to write,
so i could be so intentional in every word,
but im past poetry,
i don't do that no more.
no longer do i hold my journal up to my chest,
and let the warm fuzzys permeate through me,
like osmosis,
i know this may sound hypocritical,
considering im talking about not writing poetry in a poem,
but im still a poet,
a poet that doesn't write poetry,
because,
even my poetry imitates life,
its at best impressionistic and abstract,
almost cubist,
don't call me picasso,
but eyes have always been a little bigger than my stomach,
but my the eyes are always a little left of center,
and my Is are never dotted,
coz its never really been,
about me,
but will always be,
about you,
my poetry has always been a little super fantastic,
a little surreal,
thus,
life never quite lives up to my words,
and Im left,
let down, like after the credits roll in romantic comedy,
and you have to go back to your life where you laugh,
only so you don't have to cry at the lack of romance in it,
my poetry has always been a little too pure, too perfect,
so i stopped writing it,
perhaps around the same time, i stopped dreaming,
stopped hoping that i could have something to write about,
stopped hoping that what i wrote about,
would be there when i stopped writing,
i stopped hoping that what i described would endure,
i stopped writing poetry.
but there's gotta be some other therapeutic task for me,
some other way for me to make meaning of what i experience,
something else for me to do after i have met this person,
and all i want to do is sit down and dedicate a piece of page to her,
sit down and forever memorialize our meeting in a metaphor,
like a lunar eclipse,
sit down and write a poem about her,
but i can't do that,
coz i don't write poetry,
and even as my poetry now becomes self aware,
and i become conscious that i am indeed writing another poem,
i am still in denial,
lost in the nile that flows through my shakras,
and onto this page,
a page that i pretend doesn't exist,
a page that is not filled with sweet nothings,
coz there's nothing sweet about what i write about,
coz life don't come in 5 colors,
flavored in high fructose,
love don't taste like the rainbow,
but in my poetry love does have traces of lavender and vanilla,
raisins and molasses,
splashes of sweetness,
if only life did have the same taste
but it don't
so i decided not to write,
right?
but yet and still you make me wanna write again,
brush the dust of my composition notebook,
and put pen to page,
burn patchouli and sage,
u make me wanna stand on stage,
and declare it to as many people as can cram into a cramped space,
what they call art i call therapy,
what they call poetry i call a public courting,
a manifesto of emotion,
a 10 point platform in poetic form.
What I want?
That's simple.
You.
What I believe?
Well, I believe that our paths crossed for a reason,
and that may sound cliche,
it may be coincidental that our clicks probably click,
and its not inconsequential that our connection goes back,
farther than talking drums and teeth clicks,
and its this timeless energy that drew us together.
that drew me back to pen,
back scribbling words on receipts and envelopes,
when that's the only paper that i have within reach,
and,
i so desperately tried to leave that time behind,
i threw pens away and burned pages
said i would never do this again,
never return to a time,
when i could transfer this feeling in my chest,
into words and metaphors,
and let the butterflies that she gives me flutter between the pages of my poetry,
of her poetry,
because truth be told,
i am just the writer,
and its the movements she makes that are real poetry,
like a visual literary device,
something between, texture, tone and the overall feeling that reading poetry actually gives you.
she is the poetry, so maybe i am not really writing,
but merely reading what is written on the outer shell that is her aura,
simply interpreting the language of love that she speaks so fluently,
the language of the body,
that can't really be confined to the written word,
but i try my best,
even though i said i wouldn't,
i make an honest attempt,
coz i thought i was done writing poetry,
but here i am doing it again,
so it looks like things can change,
looks like i can still write,
as long as i have something to write about.
thank you for being that something.
thank you for bringing me back to poetry.
