linear

They have tried to force me to follow straight paths

of neatly drawn lines traveling narrowly along a parallel page,

slapping my wrist when I lift the pen

to squiggle a line here or there.

I only learned how to hide between the edges

where it never occurs for them to search.

Black and white dreams have filled the pages of notebooks,

the blank side of napkins, the inside of my palm,

anywhere they could find a way to escape.

Darkness has spread shadowy wings across the white

of more pages than I can remember.

My pain has bled blue, black, red, and the ghostly lead

of yellow pencils sharpened to fine points.

Tears have fallen and sighs have been heard

both by myself and the trusted few

with whom I have shared my secrets and screams.

I have muffled shrieks with ink and paper,

used them as weapons and as tools,

hoping to somehow make a difference.

I am a poet, an author, an artist.

I breathe syllables and exhale words,

composed of strokes instead of harsh black lines.

There are far too many dimensions in my life

to suffer through a linear existence.