Ink Filled Veins

I was born

with a silver pen in my mouth

sharpened

by an overly dry tongue.

They said there was something wrong

with my heart

because it didn’t pump

in sync

like all the others.

I discovered

it beats in iambic pentameter

flooding my veins with ink

prick my finger and I will bleed a full page.

My ears hear symphonies in cacophony

my eyes see silver in stones

and diamonds in the smallest flakes of snow

My brain makes friends with demons

and ghosts

who like to visit and riminess

about days that were never mine.

in English they say:

I guess she’s a poet

In poetry I say:

I am an archeologist of the human experience,

digging up long forgotten treasures,

and unseen glistening gems,

from lost unlikely places

where truth and silver linings

are often, together,

buried