Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

She said "I'm falling in love."

I said "I'm falling apart."

I kissed a girl with a broken smile;
nothing could come near.
She carved it with a pocket knife;
slit from ear to ear.
And she wears it like her favourite scarf;
it keeps her from the cold.
So I told her its only woven by
her enemies of old.

I write prose
poetry to
prove
I'm a product of
poor upbringing

Monsters
They’re scary
Some are in the closet
Some are under the bed
But you want to know a secret?
The scariest monsters
Are in our heads