I write because I break into pieces,

Not all at once,

But slowly, in sharp but imperceptible shards.

There is a crack in my soul

Where the ink seeps out, slow like sap,

Oozing thick with memory and emotion.

Each word I tap into this laptop’s memory

Is a cry from a wound,

that I never knew I named.

You see a poem,

I see a mirror bearing terrifying teeth,

A sweet melodic tune becomes a trembling wreck on the edge of a scream.

I am not brave,

Perhaps I am a coward who needs to whine and whinge,

But I do lay myself totally open, hiding nothing,

Where metaphors become a confession,

And similes ache with resemblance of something dark and threatening.

What if I told you I was scared each time I write,

Scared that you will read me wrong,

But even more scared that you will read me right.

What if I told you

That silence sometimes feels safer than words in rhythm,

But I choose to write rhythm anyway.

Because somewhere between the lines and the verse

I am still searching for a soft place

To be understood without being judged.

And maybe that is all a poem ever is,

Not armour or a shield, But the offering up of a wound before it scars over.