The poem

I bathe myself in the poem.

Pulling the pain out and lay it flat.

How does the palm of my hands remember so many stories.

The words jump out of me and are ready to sing.

I hear the orchestra calling my name.

I am the artist. The poem. The healer. 

This is cleansing.


I Understand the Midnight You

I understand you.
The way your heart and mind are in a constant war.
How your thoughts become autoimmune.
The way you become comfortable in pain because it feels so familiar.
I understand what its like to swallow so many words theres books growing inside.
I know what its like to find shelter in between each word.
As if safety is when you write.

-Write your pain