An Artistic Contradiction

I was never one for poetry,
for hummingbirds and summer sweetness,
but when my mind began to write it’s own
I fell in love with cutting away the excess pieces.
I hadn’t realized the rhythm in these words,
the power they have
when shifted
when splintered from their usual phrases
and placed at the edges of their meanings.
The expanse of an adjective,
the possibilities when you arrange and rearrange,
and exchange one for another,
my eyes began to open
and I fell in love with
falling in love with my language.

I was never one for symphonies
for orchestras and string quartets,
but teach me the melodies
and I’ll find myself in Beethoven,
hand the me the music
and I’ll sink the ink into my fingertips,
stain my veins,
tattoo my shoulder blades with
allegretto, allegretto,
legato, legato,
I don’t speak Italian
but the language of sonatas
of arpeggios
of Chopin and Mozart
feels familiar to my body
feels like a story
when told through my own inflections.

Maybe one day I’ll open a book of classic poetry
and see myself in it’s pages, 
again, again,
maybe one day I won’t turn down Vivaldi
when he crackles through the radio.
One day, maybe. Maybe.

For now, I am simply a contradiction.