poetry, whatever it is to you.

this is not an assignment.

this is your heart aligning with your grammar,

and confessions becoming the sentences that are piling up behind your fingernails.

this isn't for the grade book.

I won't let you put a score on it.

I won't let you nominate my knowledge,

or number my rhythm.

This pen is not the writer,

and it can't be blamed for the thunderstorms brewing behind my eyelids

despite the ink that rains on the pages.

This was never made for a report card,

and it doesn't need a percent.

this is blood in the form of sentences.

this is music in the form of words.

these are lyrics, 

and this is how a heartbeat becomes a tune.

this is not an assignment.

you aren't being timed.

these are my chipped nails making love to a keyboard to tell you about the world.

these are my pale hands pressing letters to a page to write you about death.

this is me warning you that words are the world's antidote,

because vaccines are only a dose of the disease.

words are like oxygen

and science might discourage that theory

but I'm sure they would agree that too little will kill you.

don't frame this.
don't score this.

this is food for my soul.

and ice for my burns.

and soothe for my sorrows.

this is my studio where I hide my art.

but it is not an assignment.