My Poem ‘Morphology’

My thoughts, my poetry, my life,
is so precious to me.
When I think of something,
when something completely random and unprovoked
pops into my head;
when I pick up my pen
and I write down something that inspires me for some reason,
even if it is a single word,
I can’t tell you how content I feel;
when something as complicated and nuanced as a thought
becomes real because ity can now be seen, spoken, and read.

I wrote my first poem
because I wanted to tell someone that I loved them.
It was the best feeling in the world
when the words first started to come to me in my hour of need
and began flowing from me to the empty page.
The time that I spent writing that first expression of my feelings
for someone who I didn’t know, other than that I loved them,
was, and still remains, one of the most awe-inspiring, fulfilling,
incredible, and magic moments, of my life.
The words just flowed so easily,
like a stream of pure inspiration and love-
and since then I have been in love with writing and expressing
thoughts, dreams, feelings, memories, in all ways and words.
Sharing the essence of something,
using the limited conduit of words and language
to impress upon someone what remains to be imagined,
relived, interpreted, pondered on and about, questioned,
in the same way that you ask yourself and others for days afterwards
how a magician was able to accomplish their spell-binding illusion.

Words are magic. Writers are wizards.
Most people don’t remember what they said, when, or why,
but a writer can never forget-
it is in their nature to tell the world stories of the greatest depths,
and of the most soaring of heights.
It is in a witer’s DNA to create a world
that is of its own space and for its own time,
but a writer strives to be enduring, to live forever,
to write an eternal epitaph that continuously makes people think
and re-read what has been written and read,
and changing the way that they imagine the words
coming to life in their head.

You can’t capture everything in words,
in pictures, or in music, alone;
but with the gift of memory, connection, curiosity,
and an undying need to never let even the smallest of insights of life
from falling through our fingers,
we leave great artifacts for future generations,
scattered like pieces of a vast mosaic,
that to be fully-understood they need to be read, seen, and heard,
as one, and together.

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