most beautiful thing

hardly written, not created, not forged, rather felt

punishing

the flower of light reaches out to me,

glistening onto my skin, into my veins,

giving me melanin, giving me meaning.

i ask you to define me and you acquiesce.

i’m no poet, i just put lines and sentences together. at least, that’s what i told her. she laughed at me and insisted i was “the most poetic person she’d ever met.” this comes shortly off the heels of a rage-induced weep that began from feeling… less than creative i’ll say.

yet, when she punctuates her sentence, i can’t help but think i pressured her into this.

every time i end a segment,

it repeats, which then redefines it,

something more cyclical, which enrages me.

confines don’t fit within my mind.

so i rage and i rage, but not at her, i refuse to appear that way to anyone. i’m no kid anymore, i contain my anger yet not my passion. i continue on before i take my pen to my paper and decide that it’s my time to define. i won’t stutter nor will i hesitate. i

declared what i want, because i can

an illusion, a truth, neither matters

simply because it is,

simply because i can.

so when i cease ability,

when i stop being capable, when i can’t,

i stop, the me in me ceases,

i refuse to lose that option.

that illusion, i grasp it tightly,

childhood memories in hand,

letting go of this means i let go of…

of this esoteric,

this masterful,

this warm-hearted,

this cold-blooded,

this crisis-consistent,

this emotional…

poet.