Twenty Six

Some nights,

As I lay,

I question my existence.

No longer do I know,

As I listen to poets share,

How I am one of them.

I do not care to know

What my title is,

Or where my words come from.

Yet I desire to find words worth repeating,

Or words only meant to be said once.

Twenty six letters,

Are the cause of translation, and poetic creation.

No more fluid than a body,

Gliding across a stage,

Though poetry has no applause.

It sinks down through my soul,

It grabs hold, makes a clink,

When it touches the ground I forget to thank.

And I so willingly overlook

The words inside me swell,

They break as balloons when humbled.
Dreams crushed, I realize,

That those twenty six letters are who I am.
I remember,

The day when I decided I was more.

More than the nothingness I always said I was,

And that in that moment,

My words could explain.
I stood silently,

Body positioned awkwardly,

And those letters told the world bold words;

It only took four of those letters to exclaim:       
I am me. 

~Megan Antoinette