This is a poem that doesn’t rhyme
it doesn’t sing

or keep good time
it sucks.
Because I don’t write poetry
I write to breathe
to clear the chaos
in my mind
(to sleep.)

I slop words on notebook paper
uselessly unread
cr m led in a sock drawer, [forgotten] under beds
u
b

I drown syllables in ink and watch them





floataway

morphed into some crippled thing I wish that I could say.
This?
This is not a poem, dear, this is a pulse.

This is the hum drum of myb ea ti ngheart
wet and warm
flopping inside my chest.
This is my weak knees, my lost breath
when you look at me
green eyes
strong hands
adventure as a verb
This is the perfect silence
when I’m lying beside you
as if to ask
when will the
credits come

on? the curtain

close?
for I didn’t know anything this beautiful is real
and yet
This is me all alone
with a rudely red b l i n k i n g clock
in the dark
remembering every moment
as if.
I have no net in a butterfly garden
watching them race






a


w



a




y
so scared (that tomorrow couldn’t possible be better
though somehow I’m always proved so wrong)

This, this echo of me
is
almost as silly, scared, nonsensical, implausible, and whimsical
as the real one:

That girl who holds you with an open hand
daring you to fly away, praying that you’ll stay.

I tried to fit the feelings on this
plain
white

sheet

But nothing came out but ink.