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A life lived in poetry is 10:08 pm on Monday night with my journal and pen and a restless, racing mind over tired shoulders that carry the weight of baggage I can’t seem to release.

A life lived in poetry is the alchemy of this, the transformation of dying into living, of rumination into red ink, of ragged breath into lines and rows that form on the page, and create just a little order, but not too much, for the chaos within.

A life lived in poetry means moments of playing with words and bending the rules, and listening with my whole heart to the souls in front of me, taking them in, in, in, and allowing them to touch the very inside of me, the soft, raw places, welcoming them into my story, their voices echoing in words that will never rhyme, and that is exactly why they are beautiful.

A life lived in poetry is new, recent, foreign, like trying on clothes while staring into a fluorescent mirror, and yet, finally, we have arrived here. Naked, scarred, uncomfortable, and glorious, because finally, in my life lived in poetry, you let me in, and I let you in, and in that becoming of one another, we have somehow created magic.


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