I CAN WRITE AGAIN!

As if the pen’s silver nib were a bullet  
shot backward into the well,  
recalling the joy of writing  
and the pain of counting 5-7-5,  
over and over,  
and under
until Haikus spin silk syllables.  
 
Don’t underestimate yourself!  
   
My hand shakes sometimes,  
muscle memory,  
Parkinson’s poetry,  
tenacious texts that tremor,  
talent moving left to right,  
telling me there’s something left to write.  
   
My pointer kisses my thumb,  
a reminder of poetry’s tenderness,  
that there is a love poem  
waiting to melt like a gel pen,  
writing a crush's name on the back of a teenage notebook.  
   
I learned to rhyme when I realized  
a Thesaurus was mightier  
than a Brontosaurus,    
and even though I had T-rex arms,  
back then, the bite of my pen  
could still tear through paper  
and paragraphs like poetry.  
   
Broke too many #2 pencils.  
Was the graphite generation.  
I didn’t give an F about an A unless it was alteration.    
But I found brawn in the BIC.  
I used to write verses super quick.    

“Faster than a speeding…”
   
As if the pen’s silver nib were a bullet  
shot backward into the well,  
writer’s block a bulletproof vest,  
sanity’s protest,  
looking at the world, grotesque    
in a COVID mask,  
but I’m not afraid to die,  
too rebel, to comply,  
“stick a needle in my eye”  
don’t dare use AI    
let my rhymes be sick.  
   
@Nourish_Cruz