I grew up the perfect child. Seen but never heard. Painfully aware of the mood in the room And grew up way too soon. Suppressed any hint of emotion To make life easier for them. And played the part of the perfect child Receiving the bare minimum.
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.