if art imitates life,
then how will we make art?
will we write our words in pencil, erasable and thin?
will we bury them in dusty boxes?
will we find our truths and cast them off unwritten?
let’s not.
let’s scrawl them
and bleed them
and burn them onto the page.
this book filled with poetry—
this is not a textbook.
this is a prayer book
a diary
a case history
an evidentiary report;
this is a love letter –
a thousand love letters --
a confession
a manifesto
a meditation;
this is a mirror,
a rope,
and a bullhorn;
this is a priest
an enabler
a drill sergeant
and a therapist.
so.
why read our words alone in silent corners?
why read poetry in fearful whispers?
some words make beautiful whispers
but they make magnificent screams.
may life imitate art.
grind your voice to gravel.
scream.
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