Your Secret Poem Creates Sacred Miracles

Paint kisses poetry

your hands know languages
your mouth hasn't learned

you think poetry is something that happens
to other people
but your body is already writing
has been writing since before you were born

every morning you wake up
and arrange the coffee cup just so
fold the substack at precise angles
these are verses
you don't recognize

you say you're not creative
while your fingers tap symphonies
on steering wheels
while you hum frequencies
that make flowers turn their heads

listen
every time you pause before speaking
that's a line break
every time you choose kindness over convenience
that's metaphor in motion

you are composing constantly
in the way you hold doors
in the space between your thoughts
in how you breathe when no one's watching

the universe keeps a library
of all the poems you think you're not writing
they accumulate interest
they multiply in the dark

and here's what they don't tell you
miracles aren't loud
they're the quiet accumulation
of every unspoken verse you've lived

right now
this very second
while you're reading this
your cells are dividing into stanzas

you are the poem
writing itself into existence
and the miracle?

you already published it
by being alive