Writing

At school

we're doing a poetry unit.

"Oh cool, we write poetry all the time!"

My friend says.

What we didn't realize, though,

was that the teacher turned on the tap

to our inner selves

What if you were 

just 

a thought, 

an idea, 

a possibility, 

a thing floating 

with nowhere to 

The deep, unconscious current guards

my hopeless human figure from

the continuous plume of silence 

echoing below my floating forearms. 
 

my pure body is tossed in a 

Unexpected

Dress for sun, for warmth, for joy

Suddenly

Rain, clouds, cold, hurt

Descend

Turn around and go away

If I hand you my heart

My heart made of glass

Don't shatter it

Don't have the shards

Splay across the ground

Don't hand it to someone else

To crush it

Beneath their fingers

But if it does

The brush

Covered in the black ink

Swiped at my eyelashes

Made its mark

On my face

At least

That's what it used to do

Now it sits quietly

In its spot

Far away from reach