the poet is the seamstress,
sewing words into sentences
.
the poet is the architect
building their paragraphs
.
the poet is the performer
setting the stage
.
the poet is the dreamer
with endless possibilities

-----however-----

the poet is falling apart
their heart unmendable; in pieces
.
the poet is scared
walls that protect, yet isolate.
.
but the poet is strong
and lives to tell their tale
.
as the poet is the dreamer
with endless possibilities

awoken by your lullaby
i find myself on the sand
the waves crash
the wind blows
where am I?
who knows

Do the stars know that they're far
Or do they think that falling is just warm
In love with the friction of an attractive atmosphere
How they wish to plunge into our wishful sight
Like a rippling rock or a wavering tree
No stars are not afraid of being seen
If anything sought out in both sky and sight
As the most truthful of stars, ever been
Have and are smiling
From an insatiable height

i know him too well —
the sweaty palms
the wobbly knees
the trembling voice

he sits with me in therapy
scowls at me, clawing his nails into my arms
growls through gritted teeth:
“quit talking about me.”
and the floor tilts underneath.

i do not flinch/shrink/cower;
i remain firm/secure/composed
because now,
my tongue is an ammunition
i am no longer afraid to exhaust.