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Poem
There are some poems we are just not ready to write
The wound is still too fresh for us to take notes from the light of it
And our pencil tips aren't sharp enough to stitch us up just yet

When we spill our sins in ink
We pray with stained hands
Leave indigo fingerprints saying this is who I am,
who I have been,
and every me I can become

I was told that as a wordsmith
My job was simply this
Take every human experience
Sum it up with pretty syllables
Paint vibrant pictures in black and white
And at the end of the night
You'll be paid in the stories others give you in exchange for your own
And it will be worth more than gold to you

But there are some stories we are just not ready to tell.
And perhaps that's the reason I have developed a nasty habit of redacting every dictionary I've met
Permanent marker scratching out the words "guilt" and "shame" until they bleed black like the only four letter word I can't even read

There are some poems I can't bring myself to recite
Because when I spilled my pain on those pages it was to realse the breath I've been holding since 19
And to take to a stage and
Sum it up with pretty syllables
Paint vibrant pictures in black and white
Does not yield golden stories
Those words take flight from my mouth like moths 
stirring up settled dust

Have you ever seen the way a four letter word can desaturate a vibrant smile
I've watched women turn to ghosts as they phantom fade into their seats and the life leaves their eyes as they battle back pasts violently brought present without warning

But even if I did adequately announce the nature of the content
it's not like I've done them any favors,
Because standing up to retreat is as good as a confessional of that secret held pain barely worthy of being kept by loved ones let alone strangers
Quietly putting on their masks so others won't see the way they bite the inside of their cheeks until they taste like my 2 cents

Count the stories on that building
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Find something Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Purple is always the hardest

5 things I see
4 things I hear
3 things I feel 
TERROR
ANGER
numb

Come back!
Screaming inside while trying to maintain an otherwise calm demeanor.
Locked out of my lovely night
Flipping through a set of grounding technique keys trying to remember which one unlocks my "safe calm place"
Blank face counting my way back to the present.

Because there are some poems I was just not ready to hear.
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