An autobiography
in stanzas:
Poetry at age three is
Repeating the same words
Repeating
Repeating
Until the big people think you're buffering, but
You're just making friends with the consonants
Petting the vowels
Tasting their texture
Finding rhythm nestled in noise.
Poetry at five is
Proudly wearing the verbal flow
because
you now dress yourself
in stanzas
and find words that match (rhyme)
Poetry at eleven is
Digging up riddles
and burying your own for others to find,
Like realizing you should compliment people
In all three tenses
Past, present, future
Because saying "you are"
Doesn't mean "you were" or "you will be"
Poetry at fifteen is
FEELINGS
An avalanche of
Humans as hyperbole
and
Why don't you love me
and
Longing for a home you haven't yet written
Stuck in caps lock all day
Poetry at twenty is
Calmer moments, fastidiously scheduled
Enfolded and hugged between parentheses
Poetry now is
Following train tracks of thought backwards
While waiting for the next to arrive
Sword fights with exclamation points
and
Facebook philosophy; ellipses footprints
at 3 a.m.
Poetry now
is sitting in your lungs
Filling every vessel,
Sometimes exhaled
in ink.
Poetry at age three is
Repeating the same words
Repeating
Repeating
Until the big people think you're buffering, but
You're just making friends with the consonants
Petting the vowels
Tasting their texture
Finding rhythm nestled in noise.
Poetry at five is
Proudly wearing the verbal flow
because
you now dress yourself
in stanzas
and find words that match (rhyme)
Poetry at eleven is
Digging up riddles
and burying your own for others to find,
Like realizing you should compliment people
In all three tenses
Past, present, future
Because saying "you are"
Doesn't mean "you were" or "you will be"
Poetry at fifteen is
FEELINGS
An avalanche of
Humans as hyperbole
and
Why don't you love me
and
Longing for a home you haven't yet written
Stuck in caps lock all day
Poetry at twenty is
Calmer moments, fastidiously scheduled
Enfolded and hugged between parentheses
Poetry now is
Following train tracks of thought backwards
While waiting for the next to arrive
Sword fights with exclamation points
and
Facebook philosophy; ellipses footprints
at 3 a.m.
Poetry now
is sitting in your lungs
Filling every vessel,
Sometimes exhaled
in ink.
