This Poem

This poem is my voice –

A songbird in a cage

A glass of water aching for the ocean

A coin waiting to be spent (wisely)

I am not sure when I started writing this poem

Perhaps it has been forever – since I never could speak out loud

It is a constant – as familiar as a friend held in ice

I hold it in my head

Recite it quietly when times are black – or white

I like the syllables – the stops and starts

This poem is a secret door – a gate into a garden of my making

This poem is my skeleton – the very bones that hold me up

It is everything and nothing – upon it I can create muscles

Memories to support me as I open the gate and walk outside

Into a world that cares not for words or thoughts

Best to stay inside (I think) and work on the words that keep me alive.