he asked if poetry 
was something he
had to learn,

if he had to read 
the right books or 
know the right 
people.

and if i could have
answered, i would 
have said,

poetry is sunrise 
during rush hour; 
it blinds you, vying
for your attention
amongst the noise,
the people, the cars,
the promises.

all you have to do
is reach out
and take it.

poetry is the open
door in a burning 
building, when you
were the one that 
started it all.

it is that tiny whisper
of understanding
in the angry mob sent 
to carry you away
after they all find out.

the kids are out there,
with so many words to 
say but with so little 
voice to say them.

they lurk in corners 
and alleys and we
hate them because, now,

they're right in front of us.
this is our blood
already on our hands.

maybe if they knew
that poetry was stronger
than the rush they 
felt from the heroin
working through 
their veins like it
was their true savior. 

maybe if they knew
that words had more
meaning than the gun
in their clenched fists,
the hate in their eyes.

he asked if poetry 
was something he 
had to learn,

and i said, "no,
just believe that
it's there."

i don't think 
anyone knew 
what i meant.