Gratitude

The best way to get into a very special place in my heart,
a place where every word is something I will offer to you,
is to tell me my words
are art.

I will construct every word with your memory,
because you,
you
made me believe that what I say,
what I write,
these letters I string together in a desperate attempt
to explain my mind,
aren’t just a flurry of keystrokes trying to pull out
my emotions,
making me into a productive member of society,
trying to drain myself of what I feel
because emotions are frowned upon,
because they make you work less,
because they distract you from more important things.
Everyone knows how to write, what makes you so special,
your words don’t mean anything,
beat your deadline.

I will write every word with you in mind,
remembering how you made me believe
in the power of my strikingly simple vocabulary.
I’m not some well-spoken poet,
I’m not someone who desires mystery,
or even eloquence,
requiring that anyone who reads me
have a dictionary in hand,
to learn the words’ meanings,
requiring that anyone who reads me,
have a coding sheet of my mind
to deconstruct my overcomplicated metaphors.

I write to make sense of my mind,
why make harder an already difficult task?

When the day comes that I am confident
in the simplicity of my poetry,
when the day comes that I am assured
that my rawness with words
is what makes what I write
beautiful or worthy,
or even worth a look,
is the day you should remember,
I did this all because you believed
that simple words
can make beautiful art, too.

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