An ode to the poet in me
on my best days, she’s all I am
on my worst days, she’s all I hope to be.
She’s the queen of hearts,
the warrior in disguise,
the knight in shining armor,
she’s the queen on her black horse,
proud of the wars her brown skin has won,
proud of the people who were
martyred in her fight for herself.
She walks around like a hungry lion,
eyeing something so willfully,
only she can lay her hands on it.
She walks around, filling the room,
vomiting out her words and letters and
sentences and syllables
and floats around with her own shadow.
She waltzes with me in the hallways
that I always avoided to look at
she waltzes with me through the house
that always brought be to my darkest places
she waltzes around through my backyard,
reminding me that my teenage was much more
than just waiting around
for the right people to turn up,
much more than
just my thoughts taking dreadful shapes,
much more than
what I myself defined it to be.
She takes my hand and guides me
through my garden,
she sprays pixie dust on all my plants
and in my grass,
she explains to me how every leaf,
every strand of grass,
is mine. is me.
She then goes up to the clouds,
leaves a piece of herself there,
just so she can bring my favorite cloud to me.
She buys me a diary and a pen,
reminds me to not shy away
from the dread of the blank paper,
reminds me of the wars that were fought,
reminds me that my creativity
is her younger sister and is groomed well.
This poet in me,
is never going to grow old, because
On my best days, she’s all I am
On my worst days, she’s all I hope to be.