Poesy

It’s the wail of the wounded; forsaken—

a burden, but for the breaks between

the lines. The blood shed, beautifully

inked onto the page, purged by the channel

of tears. It’s the battle between flesh

and spirit, victory claimed by the banner

of surrender.

It’s embracing the truth of the scar;

releasing the shame owned by the self

with whom you’re no longer acquainted.

It’s breaking the chains and shaking

that gorilla off your back, picking up the

pieces and patching the holes in your

heart. It’s the wonder of discovering

strength in the moments of weakness,

comfort in the unbearable truth.

It’s forbidding rage to dictate

anything more than the pressure

of the point on the page. It’s sharing the

secrets we can’t afford to keep,

displaying the profound irrationality of

our thought processes; giving the

madness a voice when we refuse to

listen to the silence.

It’s the blueprints for our hopes and

dreams. It chronicles the attempts of

the adversary and the tales of courage.

It’s that what you see in the rearview is

the only hope for the future.