i.
your words drip with crimson
as you bite your lip;
you always liked to pretend
you held the strength of metal,
and now all that’s left is the aftertaste of copper
trickling down your throat-
what happened to the child throwing pennies in the fountain?
ii.
hidden under the threaded sleeves of your sweater,
I can picture your hands shaking like earthquakes
and your fists held clenched;
I worry your fingernails cut dashed lines
into the palms of your hands,
like the ones painted on back roads and highways-
I’m worried where you plan on going
iii.
viewing your puffy eyes and hearing woebegone-winded words
tangle on your tra
Poetry is:
the adhesive to
a fragmented soul;
broken wings that still dream of
F L Y I N G
how snapdragons breathe stardust
and orchids perform ensembles.
when 'imagination' and 'reality' at last discover a
c r o s s r o a d s,
and rush to embrace one another with fervent limbs.
why gravity seems to f
a
l
l, taking the world with it.
what flows through the veins of every pair of [shipwrecked; star-crossed] lovers.
who I am; who I was; and who I want to be.
Poetry is:
Hope.
Despair.
Happiness.
Sadness.
Anger.
Hatred.
It is all that and more.
Poetry is life.
It is everything and everywhere.
Poetry is death.
It is nothing yet something.
Poetry is dreams.
It is the night like sleep that we cannot remember when we wake.
Poetry is me.
It is you.
It is us.
Poetry is.