So I Wrote A Poem About It

My friends think poems are stupid

And I'm half inclined to agree

Too bad they're the only way 

I know how to breathe

Painting patterns with my words

A self-portrait in colours and verse

My mother chides me,

"Well it's hardly a life path"

But I'm already a 1000 miles in

It's threaded in my heart

And tatooed on my skin

It is the melody ringing

at the back of my head

At times an explosive jazz number

At others, the aching notes

of a lone piano

propped in the shade

That no one but me knew how to play

Poetry is the steady hand on my

shoulder

when there's nothing left to say