Remembering

Remembering,
it was the not knowing
and the tears that made me a poet.
I reminisce about my passive voice
that claimed all pains
and joys absolute,
alloting each emotion its century of existence.
It was my incorrect grammar
and my ability to love
and know what love was even inside
the black hole of my identity
that allowed my naked soul
to translate itself to verse-
And God would speak through
divine cracks in my rhythm.
It seemed that ruins derived the truths
of my infinite subtleties,
and my sadness was the dark matter
that kept the stars in place.