I writhed for hours
In stabbing
Miserable pain
& wrote a poem
called
“My Little Migraine.”
Bitching,
Moaning,
Venting &
Complaining
Ending on some
Small & seemingly
Insignificant
Hopeful point.
I poured out my heart
To ease the loss
Of my beloveds
Traveling other paths,
And wrote out a missive
Of my love
Which never fades,
Nor dies.
I wrote a poem
That wasn't really mine,
About what it's
Like for those
Who take razor blades
To their own skin…
Because the damn voice
In my head wouldn't quit
Until I did.
Then some poet man
Came up to me
Saying,
“Manea you could
be so great.
If you could
Just move past
Using your poetry
To process your
Experiences & save
Memories.”
He just didn't know.
That the first poem
Was the one that saved
Some stranger named
Irene from committing
Suicide.
He had no idea,
That my love poem
Inspired an artist
To do an entire line
Of art that touched
Hundreds of lives,
And gave words
To others who
Had none
For their hearts.
This well meaning
Poet man had no clue
That a 17 year old
Girl no longer
Takes razor blades
To her skin,
Because of my poem,
She eviscerates
Paper now
Instead of
her own skin.
So the next time
You write
Or read a poem…
Don't judge it
So harshly,
Because like the poet man,
You just never know.
