Poetry has a way of hiding
Itself in a dried up riverbed.
Inspiration of nothingness.
Words at tongue’s tip,
Can’t quite grasp…
And then all of a sudden,
Words flow like the mighty Amazon
During the wettest season,
Tumbling over each other
In their rush to be writ upon the page.
Feast or famine,
All or nothing.

i fake a smile at dinner;
try to recreate it in the mirror
when alone -
checking to see if they
could’ve seen through it.

You got your nails done yesterday,
They look so pretty.
Black with white swirls,
Sleek shiny paint.
They're kind of blurry,
Maybe if you held my hand,
I could see them better.

I miss the way,
She used to hold me,
When we were us,

Eventually,
I stopped,
noticing the smell,
of burnt,
****.