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Poem

This is hunger.
This is the way my stomach
turns itself inside out
when I hear a phrase
that makes my spine
straighten like a lightning rod.

I devour adversity
consume the cadence of chaos,
swallow their imagery whole
As my hunger for poetic
 expression begins to grow
but it's never enough.

Never enough..

Because somewhere in the space
between what I want to say
and what spills onto the page,
there's a chasm
I'm always trying to bridge
with nothing but breath
and the desperate hope
that this time,
this time,
the words will be enough.

I've bled into notebooks,
left fingerprints on keyboards,
worn down pencils
to their metal hearts,
all for the chance
to catch lightning
in the mason jar
of a single stanza.

And when it comes—
that moment when the poem
writes itself,
when my hand becomes
a conduit for something
larger than myself,
when the words flow
like water finding
its inevitable path
to the sea

I am full.
I am the hunger
feeding itself.

But it never lasts.
The poem ends,
the spell breaks,
and I'm left
with ink-stained fingers
and an empty page
that demands
to be filled again.

So I write.
I write because writing
Grafted to my skin.
To express what lies within
So you can say writing poetry
Is in my DNA.

I write because silence
is a kind of death
and words are the only
resurrection I know.

I write because somewhere
in the marriage
of sound and meaning,
in the space between
between the question
and its answer,
there lives a truth
so beautiful,
so necessary,
that I would starve
for the chance
to speak it.

This is passion.
This is the fever
that breaks
only when the poem
is born,
crying and perfect
and finally,
finally
alive.

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