Words are like alcohol
Intoxicating your soul to dance and laugh to the rhythm of each flow
And poetry, that drives our minds and hearts to new ranges.

So when I said I am the poem
I mean every scribble was from the cut in my hands
Dripping red thick blood down to your bowl.

Every hmms and snapping of fingers was my pain
My pain disguised in euphemisms and metaphors
I sometimes wish were untrue

But pain came knocking on the door and poetry answered
Love came giggling too far
And poetry remembered

It's not the words your memory your fade
It's my life written to hold and hug you
On days warm hands may be scarce
On days, no one understands.

I am not the poet
Not the wordsmith crafting fine gold
Like my next meal depends on it
I am the poem
Shedding myself to tiny atoms of warmth.
I am the story, the beauty, the pain.