Poetry

Poetry was always a metaphor for control, every choice was mine; the ink, the paper, the words. As a child I had neither sense of the world nor my place in it but poetry taught me that one’s vision could be achieved with sheer force of will. Dark thoughts that held my psyche hostage aiding in my demise were inked down and suddenly a silver lining appeared. All my fears subsided at the sight of pen and paper; for my poetry vanquished it all. The lonesome loner had now found a companion; he was no longer forlorn. Utterly bare and beautiful; my love stood in front of me, in the form of a quill and paper