I Am Poetry

Call me the wave that blows the seasoned atmosphere;
Picking out trashes; blending them amidst thorns
Forming beautiful petals
Petals that sprout colourfully,
Blooming- with scents that choke
The bitterness and foul smell cornering our nostrils

Call me the tong that set disputes in fire
Making justice rule and slaying wrength that is now a stench

I may not be the champion your heart pictures
Nor the beauty you’ve always sought after
My voice may be the last thing to be called a voice
It could be as low as the last echoes from the battling of strings

Trust me when I say my mind is louder than the voice you hear
And the beauty you seek has been smashed in battling battles;
Leaving scars for remembrance—the victory I’ve won
Scars are sometimes pretty; they hold much more tales

I’ve been lost and found
Not once nor twice…
But I never lost my savour and the uniqueness in it

To you, I might be something else
But this I know,
I never stopped being the voice that
Speaks for the dumb;
Letters down broken hearts;
Heal frail souls;
Keep smiles on faded faces;
Poetry is what I am…


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