The Sum of My Words

It was the push to the mind of a younger me.

The teachers ignited that spark

and it grew, vastly and abundantly,

pouring onto pages with pieces of myself.

They always told me I could go anywhere.

"Read!" They said. "The books will take you places."

So I did.

And when I had traveled as far as I could,

I picked up my pen and moved forward.

Every word contained a lifetime of truths.

Every line brought new meaning to my existence.

I was alive.

And while the generation's trials lapped at my feet like waves

I fought back in metaphors.

Well, it worked. I traveled, and lived, and discovered.

Each letter reflected back a different piece of my multi-faceted self.

I once wrote that all writers are crazy.

I once wrote that our words never come when we need them most.

If anything, I need them now.

The days of working myself out on paper

have watched me grow.

I am an independent young woman.

I am a writer, a poet, and an artist of words.

A while back I thought poets must write because we're strange.

Because we have too much time

Because we see things differently

Because we live in another world

But we aren't, and we don't.

We just recognize that the greatest parts of life

can be summed up quite beautifully,

and that the most beautiful parts can be best summed up

without a single word at all.

Yeah, the world is a quite a beautiful place.

And I am content.

And it allows me to write, simply

because I feel.

Forward

The sheets are all damp with the humid air

and the glow from the screens is the only light I see.

It's just music.

And it pumps through my ears like blood into my head.

I live for these lines and melodies.

There is so much going in and on and around.

Don't you worry about what doesn't concern you.

I am afraid of getting left behind.

I'm always afraid they're leaving me behind.

But in a week or two I think I'll find

that I'm the one doing the leaving.

Don't look back, kid.

Part of me always hated it here anyways.

I wasn't made to live in these boxes.

The people here are content with a life I can never want.

I long for something different.

I told em earlier, "Fuck this place. I hate it."

Well, maybe I don't really. I've just grown out of it.

Echoes.

And I think this place is haunted.

I heard voices

and they echoed.

It's been haunted my whole life.

Sometimes we just shove the ghosts aside.

Lets pass them on to someone new.

We are starting somewhere new.

I'm all for starting over.

I've been decomposing in this stuffy place.

The sheets cling to me.

The summer air pours over my face.

I will only miss the night time here.

I will only miss the memories.

I will choose to forget some of them.

Yeah, sometimes I thrived here. 

I grew.

Albeit, slowly.

My heads a little backwards and broken.

But I'm not dead yet.

So I have a chance.

Move me into a new light.

Feed me the riches of diversity and acceptance and friendship.

I will thrive.

I will grow.

And just maybe

my head will get turned

right side up, again.