Jan 12

High

I get high on poetry;
and drunk on creating.
It's my drug of choice,
Because the high it gives me is like nothing I've ever experienced before.
My hands get shaky,
My mind clears.
I feel nothing,
But also, everything.
My heart pounds in my chest with passion,
My bloodstream clogged with adrenaline.
My mind works a million miles a minute,
But my body works in slow motion.
My pencil is a syringe,
The graphite, the needle.
The paper, my arm,
and the words the drug.
I roll meaning in paper,
and light it with emotion.
I inhale the concoction,
Letting it settle in my lungs before I exhale my creation.
I grind metaphors and similes into a fine powder before I snort them.
Letting them mingle and match with the words drifting through my conscience.
I ingest detail,
Letting it seep through my being.
Poetry is dangerous,
Once you're hooked on it.
You can't live without it.