1.1 a white mirror



Between the healing exclamations from loved ones and the whirling whispers of those who would rather us gone, there is a sweet spot: a place that only what we remind ourselves to remember, exists. And Poetry is no exception.

a white mirror

There has been almost a silence within
If you discount the echoes and the taunts
In a declaration to myself to keep whole this year
I found myself collecting up parts of me
At each turn a piece of the writer you all knew
With rhymes, and word pictures
With eloquence and immeasurable bravery 
To be intrepid with the pen
Or a warrior with the keyboard
Typing faster than ever
Spilling out thoughts from the most sacred coves within
And that was instrumentally my single fault
If I were to critique my own
I would say it lacked poise and leaked contempt in every page
If I were to disown any in its contents
I would disown the whole in its entirety
It was as if looking into a mirror after much time
Seeing the wrinkles and their lair
Seeing the uniform and its stains
I stripped myself bare yet kept hold to it all
And in letters to myself it was as if I misspelled words
The voice was as if a whisper under the roar of things thought
No surprise that you knew of all I loved yet nothing of what I truly lost
Volume one was nothing but that, a volume, 
A book forming part of a work or series
A perception of loudness in which intensity is measured
Keywords being perception and part. 
And so, in that time I have found new challenges to unearth 
I have much more of me to present and from a vantage that can not be numbered just yet
Therefore, I ask for your attention
I ask for you to dig a little deeper this time
Not to just understand all that I write
But to feel all that I feel
Before you can see behind the pixels I must set the scene
I must lay the foundation
May I be frank with you?
Be open and be honest, be inquisitive and be true?
May I reveal to you both emotionally and physically where I have been?
May I shine a more consistent light on matters that matter most?
I have become accustomed to prosing through topics and fear I don’t linger long enough to capture them
This is the middle-ground 
The space where my passion meets its destiny
This is not number two, although in its reality, it is
This is something I’ve been meaning to say
But each time the sentiments eluded me
This is a distinction between what it was and what we all know it to be
This is 
“The Truth about Poetry”.

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