I Want to Write Something Residual

Someone told me to
write a poem.

I thought, what for,
why? To express? To get
out this rage that
eats at my bones?
To create? Or to
destroy life? To believe
in something,
in anything? Or to
dispel the few things
I cling to, desperately
achingly?

These words are buried
deep in
the smallest parts of my
hands, agonizing, screaming,
never hoping, or praying
that some poet will
breathe them or scratch
them onto paper, but
expecting, waiting noisily
for their propagation, their
birth. I cannot deny them
their existence.
I hear so many lines of
verse and I see so
many pages of words,
digging through them,
wanting so desperately
to find the Truth somewhere
inside. Is this why I
write? Sometimes I wonder if
this is all, this is all it is,
just everything,
but even the answers have no
questions and I get so lost
in a poem I forget if the
words are going up or
down, backwards or
forwards, right to
left or left to
Write?

This is what I know:
I know I want
to give Life to these things,
the poem that was never written,
the string of words that were never
strung together,
an unborn baby I would never see,
or hold, never touch or be able to
whisper the secrets of God into her hands,
the stories of the lost people that
will never be heard, or read, or believed in
Oh good God, please, will somebody please
see this person, this Truth of life that
she was here on this Earth, she
lived and it was beautiful?
I write for the things unseen,
the things unspoken, and forgotten.
Maybe I just write because I
don’t know how to do anything
else, this world makes
sense only in lines
of complex verse and
sometimes rhyme. When
someone told me to write a poem,
I said okay, I will.
But what may mean nothing to
you at all, means
Everything
to me.