Birth Certificate

Once upon a time,
I didn’t know how to write without burning myself at both ends
Burning in the literal sense of becoming engulfed in flames,
But also burning
In that profound, metaphorical sense
That us poets have
Of ripping our souls out and slinging them around our necks
Like a scarf,
Like a noose
Swallowing pills like swollen words
That spill from fist-clenched pens
And entwine themselves in my lungs like the smoke
That dangles from the flaming cigar
On my soulful poet lips
Slow death like
My blackened breath
Wheezing emphysema words
I didn’t know how to depend on my pen
Like a drag, or a drink or a
Slow descent in the writer’s rabbit hole
I didn’t know how to write anything other than pretty synonyms for sorrow
I didn’t know I could sign my name
To a story that wasn’t sad
I didn’t know how to write without killing myself
But this is not a suicide note
This is a birth certificate
Entering a world of
New beginnings with
Jovial juxtapositions of joy and a
Gradual climb to the writers haven
For freedom to breathe
And write about the fire
That burns within us