If I Wrote Anything

If I wrote a lyric every time I cried, I guess you'd be able to call me a songwriter. All the poems I write, start off as lyrics to a hymn, a song of praise, but once I continue to write the words, each and every letter it took to write them down began to boil themselves down turning from water into evaporation at this part of the cycle I can not contain my emotions. They are now a part of the atmosphere, little particles that are now inseparable from the oxygen I need in order to breathe - so I guess at that point my emotions regardless of being felt will always be a part of me.If I wrote a hymn every time I made it over an obstacle, I guess you can call me a poet who's learned the fact that no matter how all you get mantrasonsters will always be under your bed, inside of boxes, all you have do is take them out and use them once in a while - it helps. It scares the negativity away and makes positivity too scared to leave. I'm just saying. Slap a smile on your face and then people will just stop asking if you're fine. Saying you're fine, is a waste of words. Words that I can not secretly snatch back from the air and chastise it from leaving to insecure security of my mouth, was not patient and waited for the entrapment of being written down on paper in a journal so and in ink so pretty it makes the pain of the words hurt less. I am a mother. I am not a mother in the sense that I am accountable for another human being. I am a mother since I am accountable for myself when I wake up and get out of bed anyway other than myself. The saying woke up on the wrong side of the bed when the days that I go through that it is an out-of-body experience just as much as how the day goes for me for that day is out of hand. I try to play catch, but even if I wear a baseball mitt my day and all of the decisions seem to fall through crevices that I can not see with the naked puffy red/ sleep-deprived/ empathetic/ joyous/ smiling/ hazel/ eyes. I have heard people make the mistake of telling me that how I feel is a choice. I'm that case rotate the world backwards, take the hand of time, and put it in the hands of the world so that the world can take time with it. Show me when I was given a multiple choice quiz so I can better understand why I failed, take me back, put the world back on its natural axes and on its normal rotation, tell time to say goodbye, bring me back to the present, but only moments before I'm given the quiz and take it again since I have studied more. My head must have been screwed on backward, my eyes rolled to see the inside of my skull and have been speaking in tongues for you to think that out of everything that I would have chosen that I would have picked this. That I would have chosen to be smacked by the world before I was old enough to be chastised by my parents; that I would have chosen to live in this skin that no matter what I wear on it and for onlookers to still look like as if it's a perfect trophy to have on the wall; that I would have chosen for my tongue and I to be enemies when it comes to weather or not I should speak up for myself - for my tongue to somehow find a way to communicate with my brain and convey all these different "situations" that'll happen if I were to do so, but yet if I weren't supposed to do so what other reasons would have God have given me a tongue, it gotta be more than just to transmit through the nervous system weather food is hot of cold/good or bad.If I wrote every time I cried, guess you can say that at that point I'd be sleeping on a bed full of oceans of paper, that the bricks that I use to close myself off would be crafted from the journals that would not burn after I filled them with everything that ever hurt me, so now I use them so I can't be hurt, that my body would be a vessel that hides a library so that readers can not annotate on the pristinewater-damaged pages, and that my eyes are the only eyes I dear let read what I wrote, before I let people read what I wrote.