And I know you.
You feel like my mind.
Dangling in your fingers
the rush of insecurity,
I finally see
you.
I know why people
make you up.
You're silent.
You're a metaphor.
Taken in the mouth like,
like speaking.
The worse trapping.
Imagining no one
will know.
Write it anyway.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
