A Poem Is, Revisited
Poetry is the burn marks on his skin,
the scars on my wrists.
Surprise widening eyes.
Promises never spoken,
they don’t need to be.Poetry is where I live and breathe,
all in lowercase
while you pick your jaw up
off the floor.Poetry is where I drive a dull pen
deep into your chest,
pluck out your heart,
make it my own.
I need a new one.
I lost mine somewhere along the way.Maybe to another poet.
(via rubbishbinangel-deactivated2013)
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