Mindful Mondays, Poetry


April 24, 2017

A life lived in poetry is 10:08 pm
on Monday night with my journal and pen
and a restless, racing mind
over tired shoulders that carry the weight
of baggage I can’t seem to release.

A life lived in poetry is the alchemy of this,
the transformation of dying into living,
of rumination into red ink,
of ragged breath
into lines and rows that form
on the page,
and create just a little order,
but not too much,
for the chaos within.

A life lived in poetry means moments
of playing with words and
bending the rules, and listening
with my whole heart to the souls
in front of me, taking them
in, in, in,
and allowing them to
touch the very inside of me,
the soft, raw places,
welcoming them into my story,
their voices echoing in words
that will never rhyme,
and that is exactly why
they are beautiful.

A life lived in poetry is
new, recent, foreign,
like trying on clothes while staring
into a fluorescent mirror,
and yet, finally,
we have arrived here.
Naked, scarred, uncomfortable, and
glorious, because finally,
in my life lived in poetry,
you let me in, and
I let you in,
and in that becoming of one another,
we have somehow created

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