I used to write with fire
basking in the golden glow
blazing across the page.

I slung words like flaming arrows
without regard.

They were powerful,
they were bold,
they burned . . .

And then one day,
sitting alone in the center
of a cold, radioactive flame,
willing cancer to ashes
I came to understand.

There is no pride in fiery destruction,
no lasting warmth in white-hot anger,
no vindication in always trying to prove oneself.

One of the lucky ones,
it’s been four years and
I’m still here to live and write.

But my words have changed with what I learned
and my life has changed with my words.