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I WAS PRESSED UP AGAINST THE WALL, FALLING TO MY KNEES, LOOKING TO THE SKY, finger on the trigger, targeting euphoria, caught in the cross hairs and I am not letting you out of my sight.

I had my hands up. It was a sting operation they staked out for fifteen years before they knew when to go ahead and raid my dreams for all of their worth. They interrogated me in every aspect to place me in every predictable scenario. I am guilty as charged. I have been sentenced a life in solitary confinement.

I granted you the freedom to roam the open streets of poetry, let you run free and wild. I saw you take what you needed from poetry and never asked for anything back in return. I saw you running into the night, stealing stars from the sky just so you could string up the moon and climb to amazing heights to watch from a safe distance where the air is thinner and every breath is inhaled upon a sweeter taste on the tip of your tongue.

I stole back the night. My dreams got raided and have been sentenced to life imprisonment. I am moving to a new environment where others roam and lay their souls to rest in the deep and sullen stillness of tonight. In this lockdown situation, I find my inmates inspire me to feel good about stealing those dreams that submerged my thoughts of setting myself free from this desire. It is a constant reminder that the word is my strongest weapon to break free. The time has come to bust out of this shell I have cocooned my dreams in for so long ansd take down the guards that keep watch behind walls of confinement. I've served my time and now I am ready to take back what is mine.

I remember you running through the streets and I know where to find you. All I ask from you, is the ammo I need to fend off anymore raids on my dream of remaining free from any lockdown situation of solitary confinement. I need this commitment before I escape. When you commit to the poem, you put every once of emotion into your creation. It provokes an instant reaction and feeling, jerking your insides and building bridges that cannot be burned. It is a fire cannot be mistaken for anything except a one true art form in the poem. We have to see this commitment to the word, or we cannot commit to you. If I am going to put everything on the line here, a well paying job, financial and emotional security in order to bring Poesy to new and amazing heights, I need this commitment from poets in return. Together, we can put out the fire that is burning inside us.

I have seen Poesy grow from publishing a few of my friends in high school to a nationwide newsprint publication gifting me with a mailbox filled daily with submissions. Now, it has gotten to the point where there is no where to go. I feel we are backed into a corner with no where to run and have to rise above it all in honor of the publication's longevity and growth. The only way we can grow together is to make a commitment to the word, move life's disillusions aside, and let the word guide us into the depths of inner truth. We have got to have faith that poetry can stand on its own two feet to withstand the winds of change and pray that one day it will blow toward us a precious existence and purpose in honor of why we roam this earth.