Poetry Be Like...



Poetry be like...


crumpled paper and broken pencils at 2am

sharp daggers of empty stabbing a wounded soul

stanzas scraping against the roof of memories

the space between imagination and the inevitable

a burning heart whose embers scorch throat and tongue

everything I need to say but won't

the inside of my grandma's steamer trunk

the sound of a growing oak tree

creaks and pops from old vinyl records

erect nipples

hands speaking to a soft belly

stretch marks on curves that eat moonlight

a baby's first grasp at its parent's finger

a death row inmate's last meal

the ghost of lynched bodies

Shaft on 125th street

velvet paintings of cordova love

nag champa incenses

toes licking foreign soil

sunrises on unfamiliar sand

broken book pages

the sky

God.




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Poetry Alone

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