Looking back at the poetry, the pain.
Man, I was different back then.
Insane? Maybe my brain has healed
a bit.
Reminding myself what I been through.
There must be a reason for it.
Maybe I am not the best at this.
Maybe I will never make your list.
That’s ok with me, you’re not the reason
why I write.
Because, the wrists have strengthened.
Strong hands, strong fingers
connected to muscled limbs,
arms that have carried me, when I couldn’t.
A mind that survives, when really it shouldn’t.
Ears canals that filled with anxiety, that sharpest feeling.
Lungs that keep me breathing.
The feet that keep me walking, trudging through the
mud that I’ve slept in.
The toes that keep me centered, and watch where I am stepping.
The knowledge I got, from the blood in my veins.
Ink stained thoughts, on a synaptic page.
This body of words, this soulful ministry.
The words that keep me going
when in truth I shouldn’t be.
Should be dead, locked in asylum, but now look at me.
I am a poet, a survivor, as strong as the tree
that shades me when I sleep.
The prayers I have tried to keep.
The dreams that woke me up, that made me want to scream
and yet there I am, still me.
Writing. Living. Surviving.
Breathing and happy to be.
Rocking the three on my hat
and the ink in my veins.
Maybe not the best, but definitely not the same.


Jason Wright is the editor and founder of Oddball Magazine. His column appears weekly. His new book is Train of Thought.