To Poet or Not to Poet

After Langston Hughes My teacher said to me, "Go to your dorm room and write a poem tonight. Let the words flow out of you. Let them ring true." Is that the truth? Is it really that easy? I'm twenty-two, born and raised in Cedarhurst. I'm graduating in just a short while, from Yeshiva University in the middle of Midtown. (I'm pretty sure I'm the only twin in this poetry class) I cross Lexington, Park, possibly stop for an iced caramel macchiato from Starbucks on the corner, to the middle of 34th and Madison, where I trudge up the stairs to my messy bed, plop down and start to write. I'm never sure what is true, if this is between me and you. I see New York. I feel New York. But do I see myself in all these blinding lights? Can I find myself while lying here, wide awake, in the heart of Manhattan? Who am I? My love of coffee? My fear of falling in love? My attempt to find the meaning of life? (emphasis on attempt ) My love of ...

She begins to hear it. The voices. The rumbling that shakes from the kitchen to her bedroom. Her fogged mind from lack of sleep snaps awake.  Her satin pillow, once used for comfort, now becomes her shield. Her buffer between paradise and the trenches.  Her weapon to defend her from the screams.  Holding back the string of curses assaulting her walls. Will it ever stop? The sounds start getting louder. One decibel. Two decibels. Three decibels. The shield now can't block her from it. She runs to the bathroom and locks the door. Her makeshift bomb shelter. Nothing in her artillery but headphones and an iPod. Maybe this will set her free from the never-ending battle raging through her home. The opening chords start to play. Drums bang. Cymbals clash.  An escape from the war that is infringing on her home territory. But it only helps for a short while. ...