I Write Words

I wrote the first

at fifteen;

decorated a composition book

with pictures of bands

I'd barely heard

and stickers

and poorly drawn pictures

of the dispensable teen

I aspired to be.

The pages filled quickly:

doodles and ghastly,

God-fucking-awful

rhyme schemes,

silly suicidal banter

masked

as creative writing.

A few of those composition- keepers later,

(and a few unwanted views

of their revealing innards)

the words got bigger.

The rhymes gave way

to rhythm.

The banter

became a dialogue

between the reader

and

their self.

I could hide my heart

in plain view.

I found

I had been trying

too hard

to force words

into art.

The words came

when Poetry,

in her graceful,

welcome,

deceit

told me

I belonged to her.