I am a poem.
My soul is crazy.
no matter what happens next,
no matter if no one reads the verse of my mad thoughts,
no matter if dust covers my poetry papers,
I am a poem.
I write about the waves of my soul’s water.
My poem tastes like a glass of black tea
when you are tired.
It is the spice of my lunch every day.
My poem sounds like the sky singing in summer,
like rain in the spring.
My poem sounds like
parrots talking, sparrows chatting
in a lonely tree in the valley.
I bloom, bloom, bloom.
When I write about mirrors
pain, life, tea, sparrows, eyes,
I write, write, write.
No matter that, in her hands, Nature
has a hammer, leveled
at my head, poised to kill my poem.
I don’t give up.
I am a poem.
By Roya
Dear Roya,
I love this poem. You have strong imagery and yes, writing is the way for all of us to heal. Please don’t give up. YOU are a poem.
Love, Rachel
Wonderfull Roya, this is simply great
I never felt the need to create so strongly until I read your poem. Lovely! Thanks for putting into words what I could only feel before.
Roya, Your poem is beautiful. Nature will never kill the poem; it is inside you; it nourishes your soul and your desire to create.
Wonderful- such strong imagery. There are few people more lucky than those with the drive and ambition to create, and the ability to listen to themselves.
Thank you.