Poetry is Me

I come with nothing but my name No shield of pride, no bold demands Just echoes I can’t still. A thousand thoughts rise up like waves, But only ink knows how to save I am the grief that learns to sing, The silent hope that blooms in spring And when the final words are free, The page will hold what eyes can’t see The things I cannot flee. But even then, I’ll rise once more A poet spilling at her core For poetry is me.