life agitates in the cracks between the heart
and the soul, blooming in whole, not parts,
raw emotions. swirling, beckoning to bleed
into poetry. blood coursing with turmoil,
in feverish dreams you sweat words that pool
into verses. by morning, you change
the poetry-drenched sheets, misting the
air with metaphor-tinged particles.
you breathe in before resigning to your
desk, waiting to conquer the empty page
that sits in front of you, attempting to
distill the hurt, the sorrow, the joys,
the burdens, the quietness, the solitude,
the love, the unrequited, the unspoken,
the laments, the hymns you recite;
anything and everything into poems
but you find yourself short one flower
of a bouquet, wondering if only your
unconscious self is a poet.
