A Poem in Me
A Poem in Me
There is a poem in me that wants
To come out deep beneath the surface
There is a poem in me that refuses to be contained
And retrained and withheld in my brain.
I spit the verse and let the poem
Shed the tears.
It started as a whisper.
You know the kind—
the kind you pretend not to hear
because you’re in public,
because you’re polite,
because you’ve been taught that silence is safer than truth.
But this—
this thing inside me—
doesn’t do polite.
This is louder than survival.
Because this poem—?this unruly, untamed, uninvited guest—?does not want to live inside me.
It wants light.
?It wants breath that isn’t recycled.?It wants an audience,?even if that audience is just one person?who didn’t plan on understanding me?but does anyway.
It wants a stage.
And I am terrified of stages.
Of the way they turn your insides into outsides,?of the way they hold you still?while your truth runs wild,?of the way silence from a crowd?can feel like judgment?or reverence—?and you don’t get to choose which.
will let it take the mic
with my shaking hands as witnesses.
But this poem—?this stubborn, beautiful rebellion—?keeps building.
Line by line,?it stacks itself against my hesitation.?Metaphor by metaphor,?it constructs a ladder?from my gut to my lips.
It was never trying to escape me.
It was trying to become me.
Un-contained.?Un-apologetic.?Unfinished.
And finally—?heard.
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