Why Do You Write Poetry?

Because when I was child, I met the world with a hug and adored its strawberry-vanilla dream of Santa Claus and the Easter bunny, only to evolve into a pencil-dull reality inhabited by politicians.

Because I believed in the tooth fairy and I worshiped a god they created to justify their ignorance; it wasn’t until later I learned it was a mechanism and He swims in the ocean with mermaids

Because all the school children were actually witches with pointed stakes for tetherball poles and in their hands were torches lit by mothers and fathers who prayed to a mannequin and the distributor.

Because in high school I carried myself down the halls as thoughts of flies and corpses haunted me; I didn’t dare speak about wanting to die and held these words within the soul’s submarine.

Because one day a water stain appeared in my blue ceiling as I wasted my heart on a boy who couldn’t love himself, so I figured I should go ahead and drop off the the flat world and into space.

Because I found refuge in sharp edges and opened myself up like a package wrapped in crimson paper; within the box was the same child, but covered in cave’s sludge and he had never seen the light of day.

Because I took this boy and cleaned him; I wiped away the spit while telling him that every worm must become a butterfly bigger than than the mocking birds who look  for something to swallow whole.

Because I once labeled my days and divided them between pink and yellow; it was poetry which helped send the capsules down a big, black hole and come back to Earth as an martian.

Because when I walk and speak, there is Rebel flag in their eyes that sees an extraterrestrial taking deep breaths, enjoying meals and wearing their similar skin over jagged marrow and muscles.

Because for everything a reason and the bitter parts of the winter season; it’s a way to make it through Christmas and kill the guilt which drags behind broken resolutions like a body in a bag containing me.

Because I desire dark clouds in a heathen’s arm fold, the bristle twine on jawlines and bow before a candle which melts and drips tenderly with ivory seances which call upon the spirits of love and pleasure.

Because I often times reject this sorcery in fear the magic will backfire and leave me with a curse that pins heels and forces the head underwater; I believe I would rather flop like a fish than drown as a weight.

Because I might as well be an atheist or an agnostic for finding justice in karma and the element’s power to piece together my entire existence, despite the fact my creator is all for one and one for all.

Because it extracts poison and replaces it with honey and apples and fresh water untouched by a pilgrim’s disease ; it brings me closer to finding new land and flourishing its abundant nature.

Because I really don’t like to mention that I write poetry, but instead treat it as a personal garden, where one day they will cut it down and place the stems on my grave or a next to an urn full of me.

Because it’s a way to paint the soul on a horizon without oil or acrylics and forever leave the edge of twilight smeared in the distance; and because I long to echo through the never-ceasing and because I simply can.

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Published by

craneknewitt

I have currently been busy with life and I will be re-publishing older poems. New poems will come. I'm always under construction.

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