Poetry and Me

“This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say. I don't plan it. When I'm outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.” Rumi Poetry, sometimes you can be cruel, manipulating me to express thoughts which I've secretly suppressed. You poach pieces of my soul, massacring my masculinity, revealing my vulnerabilities - you make me look like a fool. Have you become the definition of my silence? Poetry, your introduction intoxicated my muse, bursting drunken lyrics through my veins, confusing my grammatical accuracy, acting like an angry alpha autocrat artist, assassinating my adverse alternative alliterations. My vocabulary is helpless against your stubbornness. Poetry, Sometimes I hate you, when you are erratic and brutal, bleeding unfairly against my will, causing pain through vicious verses, but, sometimes I love you, when you bring soothing serenity, flowing sweetly from my calming quill. Poetry, You are a restless rebellious catharsis. I don't know if you are a blessing or a curse. My life is repression on repeat, I'm somewhat an expert, yet you create a pathway to open doors, creating a balance in an unstable world. Poetry, I remember when I forgot you. In your unwritten absence, my heart resembled a blank canvas, but then you returned like a snowstorm in June, reminding me of Rumi's beloved spirit. Now you consume my mind, my speech and my tone - overtaking a tongue's desires to remain mute. Poetry, I never cared for rhymes, until you found me at a time of soul searching, blooming evergreen words to leave a legacy behind. I was lost without you.