Week 29: Poor Poem

The words have always been right.
In my heart I’ve felt the power of a poem--
the lines that catch in my throat to keep
me from crying;
the phrases that break like ice, hitting
the ground with resonating power;
the words that draw pictures in my mind,
teaching me to understand the beauty
of the world.

It has always been a game
of make believe.
Of pretending I loved other things too,
of pretending I didn’t want to do this
with my life.

It’s not hard to convince yourself
when everyone else believes.

But when I fall asleep to a newly
filled page,
when I spend hours to commit
lines to memory,
when I sit on the side of the road
tapping words into my iPhone
because I can’t wait to write them
down any longer,

I know.

That the words have always been right.
and the words have always been there.
And I’m trying to figure out
if I love poetry enough
to be poor.