That is what poetry is ...

That is what poetry is
The picked at scars on a hurting chest
Some that bleed with memories
And some that are healing
Slow and steady
The struggle of getting up every morning
Grabbing your pieces again
And reassuring yourself that you will survive
It is that nasty knot in your throat you carry around
Inside your composed and calm self
The mid day panic attacks of your missing self
The hopes you feel crumbling within
More than that,
It is the what ifs and maybes that bleed in your ears
And the slow realization that you have to let go 
Of the part of yourself that you loved the most,
The one you sacrificed,
The part that made you truly happy.
And whatever else remains in the hollowness,
That is what poetry is.