---

Poetry is whatever you want it to be,

voice calling, words singing, dreams talking.

---

I don’t care if you like it,

I never wrote it for you.

---

It’s nothing. It’s just my voice.

---

It’s possible that I only ever wrote for my parents,

Critical, frustrated writers.

---

It’s all in good fun, hand slapping the sheets dismissively.

Wonderful, darling, quite good.

---

It’s nothing. It’s just my voice.

---

Tight buds of writer, never blossomed,

they were cautious in their praise.

---

Remember, writing is 99% perspiration, and 1% inspiration.

Tossed pages slip off back seat of car.

---

It’s nothing. It’s just my voice.

---

They did not tell me that my voice was sure and clear.

They never said be brave, be bold, be fearless.

---

They never said pour out your voice onto the streets,

Your naked hairy terrible truth.

---

It’s nothing. It’s just your voice.

---

Finally I cajoled my voice out of my body,

I breathed out my smelly poetry.

Peering at my poem through greasy glasses,

I held it between shaking fingers and read it aloud.

---

It was nothing. It was just my voice!

---

Perspiration was not an obstacle. Nor inspiration.

Success or approval, irrelevant.

---

I spoke.

It was my voice.

---

I let the inside of my body out, onto the page.

See what I see, hear what I hear, feel what I feel.

---

It’s nothing. It’s only my voice.

You have one too.

---

I smell the fires burning and I feel the exit narrowing.

There is no time to be coy or disingenuous.

---

It’s time for poetry.

It is time to use your voice.

---