To write a good poem,

you must first survive a good story.

Not the kind that ends in applause,

but the kind that leaves splinters

under your skin.

You must walk through a night

that does not promise morning.

You must love something

that does not promise to stay.

You must hold a name in your mouth

like a prayer

and then learn how to swallow it

when no one answers.

A good story will break you properly.

It will teach you the architecture of ruin

how walls fall inward,

how silence can be louder than screaming,

how a heart can keep beating

even after it has been asked to stop.

Before the poem, there is the trembling.

Before the metaphor, 

there is the bruise.

Before the rhythm,

there is the irregular breathing

of someone trying not to fall apart

in a room that smells like goodbye.

You must survive the moment

when you realize

you are not the hero.

You are the witness.

You are the wound.

You are the quiet aftermath

where dust settles on broken glass.

And then, only then

when the fire has done its work

and left you ash but breathing,

when memory no longer roars

but hums like a distant train,

when pain becomes a language

instead of a scream

you sit down.

Your hands will still shake.

Good. Let them.

Because a good poem 

is not written with ink.

It is written with what remains

after the story tried to erase you

and failed.

To write a good poem,

you must first survive a good story

and carry its scars

like punctuation

across the white page.