My poetry
Is not dried
ink
Unable to
write beauty
Or broken
lead
That will
not scratch
Any louder
Under
pressure.
My poetry is
Concentric
circles,
Suspended in
viny,l
Lying
between space and time,
Spinning.
My poetry is
not stolen
And
uncopywritten,
Sampled and
remixed
Until the
flow
Feels like
watered down campbell’s soup.
My poetry is
Dependent on
the weathered vintage
Of my
soulspeak
And not
yours;
Sooo ready
‘til you can
put away
You can
opener,
b/c my
poetry has
a pop-top.
It’s so
fierce
‘til the
stain remains
Long after
Tide met Gain
And lost the
match.
My poetry is
not what
You are used
to,
Not your
favorite pair of shoes
Or the purse
That goes
with everything.
My poetry
Resonates in
your dreams
To the
trickle of my voice
And you
wonder how
You hadn’t
heard me before
Or were you
not listening?
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