When I was young,

I didn't know how to snap my fingers

I would hit them against each other

Like two tone deaf vocalists trying to duet

I spent far too much time trying to make sense and not nearly enough just making noise

I walked into battle fields with poems instead of fists

Wearing metaphors and rhymes as armor

And I let people tell me that gentle didn't survive wars

But here I am, Purple Heart, shell shocked

And gentle.

Still wrapping my metaphors around the ugly stuff

Because I am twenty two and I still have not found a language that translates pain

So I speak it in analogies

I've learned to snap my fingers now

But I prefer to do it wrong

I like myself better when I stop trying to make sense and just make noise