Poetry at age three is
repeating the same words
Repeating, repeating
until the big people think you’re buffering
but you’re just making friends with the consonants,
petting the vowels
tasting the texture,
finding rhythm nestled in noise.
Poetry at five is
proudly wearing the verbal flow
because you now dress yourself
in stanzas,
and find words that match.
Poetry at eleven is
digging up riddles
and burying your own for others to find,
Like realizing you should compliment people
in all three tenses
past, present, future
because saying “you are”
doesn’t mean “you were”
or “you will be.”
Poetry at fifteen is
FEELINGS
An avalanche of humans as hyperbole
and “Why don’t you love me?”
and
longing for a time you haven’t yet written,
Stuck in caps lock all day.
Poetry at twenty is
calmer moments, fastidiously scheduled,
Enfolded and hugged between parenthesis.
Poetry now is
following train tracks of thought backwards
while waiting for the next to arrive,
Sword fights with exclamation points
and
Facebook philosophy,
ellipses footprints at 3 a.m.
Poetry now
is sitting in my lungs
filling every vessel,
sometimes exhaled
in ink.
