They told Me to Write a Poem (Spoken Word)

They told me to write a poem,

one to celebrate the art of rhymes,

structures and creating

something

beautiful.

I’ve always hated the ritual

of celebration,

its infatuation done wrong.

My poem was awful,

shameful and

downright

dismal.

They told me to write

something beautiful.

My body was my blank canvas,

and I wrote the words

to my life.

I carved out the paths,

echoed out my tales,

told them something

beautiful.

I wrote them lines

of dreams and

stanzas of nightmares.

They did tell me to

write something

beautiful.

My writing skewed as I

recalled my past,

and felt the tears

of regret stain

the page.

They tried to wipe

them away,

but it was something

beautiful.

I recalled every bruise

and scar,

I pointed to my

stretch marks and

they were beautiful.

They asked me why

I was doing this.

I couldn’t answer as

my words stopped in my

throat,

and the past tried to choke

me.

They told me to

write another,

but that would be

like taking a lover.

Wrong, and betraying.

I couldn’t turn my back

on myself

again.

I wrote until 3am

and didn’t stop

until my hands ached.

They did tell me to write.

They told me to

write a

poem to celebrate.

I wrote a poem to celebrate

all those who survive.

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