im gonna write this poem i promise

i never heard nails
on chalkboards
i was never annoyed by
the clock ticking
i never felt rain softly
only CRASHING

i like the rain
i like the pouring
i like the rhythm
perfect//gross
neat//wrong

writer's block
to someone with
a pen for a liver
just means, shorter

just means
i don't care
how many lines

just means
maybe i need

another line

green collisions
topped with
yellow petals
no,
white petals
no,
red petals
no,
pink petals

i think i'm hearing the colors
and tasting the sounds

do you think we melt in heaven?
i've always liked that thought

melting

the flowers
are waltzing
no,
moonwalking
no,
they're doing the salsa
no,
pole dancing

we're all flowers
learning to dance
in the wind

we're all writers
learning to pen
down our words

we're all artists
learning to drip
paint, quicker, faster

we're all struggling
to find
our waves

i've never danced before

i tried once

i cried

i don't write poems for anyone

i write poems to survive

i need these words
and broken stanzas
like the flowers
need their breeze,
need their water,
need their sun,
need their breeze,
need their water,
need their sun,
need their breeze,
need their water,
need their sun

my liver is black
these words are black
my shirt is black

the flowers stay full of color

i wonder
what
would
happen
if
we
learned
to
love
the breeze,
the water,
the sun,
the breeze,
the water,
the sun,
the breeze,
the water,
the sun,

the same way
the flowers
do

dancing