Who could write poetry, --
That was not heartbroken?
For the moment at current grip
When attention is far from at slip,
Could this softly spoken word poet
Declare another phenomena?
Such as, who could write poetry, --
That had not a heart beating?
I shied not away from my story,
Yet I stepped into the woes.
I took all the right and wrong
Punches in which came directly from my guts
A feeling I took upon my shoulders
Like an ice burg that couldnâ€™t get any bigger
An entire Ocean and more carried frozen waves right on my back
A chip over my shoulder that wouldnâ€™t dare melt
Because I knew my self-hatred loved to carry that weight,
Nevertheless, as I came to the blank pages,
With my heart pushed flat on the ground
In un-fixable pieces, yes, I felt that was true enough,
What I thought was already a lost cause of multiple burdens
Actually indeed became my ticket to compassion and inner beauty.
The chip on my shoulder melted away
Into a flood of Holy matrimony to the paper
As I wrote line after line of poetry streamed from the soul.
I heard someone said once,
Those who donâ€™t fall in Love,
Become naturally ridden poets
By the pull of a rather different heartstring,
-- For the simple admiration of storytelling.