I am never still,
You see-
I never rest
Constantly in motion
I have always
Questioned my place
Was I to be a runner?
My knees bent,
Arms thrusting forward, biting wind
Not with knees like this-
They would never last!
Or in medicine?
Curing ailments, slicing belly’s-
Carving skin from bone. I can’t,
I can’t bare loss.
Or a reader? Sitting quietly in a chair, pensive-
Pulling words from pages,
Swallowing them whole
Not with ideas like this. I could
Never be anything but
The writer.
Hovered over a desk, pen moving, stanzas commas
Lines spilling into puddles
I have everything I need
I told myself,

A comfortable place to lie my head
Inside of poetry