Imagine
        A poem

                Is a small room

                       With words

                                 Walking in,

                                               And out the doors.



Periods are door knobs,

And symbols closing doors.  

Stanzas balance beneath

the blank expanses
In cycles.



The unites

compacts & splashes



cascading

Into the

pond of

consciousness

    at the end.



The goal

Is to

reach homeostasis

Of the heart

  & the inward eye.



For Imagination is  inking

a strange cosmos

one letter

& blank space

   at a time.



Poem makes

It home among words

    that It nests in.



What is,

              Is spoken

                     Upon the paper

                                 Of poets.

Pictures of dead people I know
are smiling and are so full of life
hanging on my wall
reminding me
to seize this day,
because it's not cliche,
and it won't come again.

I like to do those quizzes
in glossy bubbles that you
find
in Cosmopolitan and
Elle and
Seventeen.

Which girl should I be?

Should I
dump paper flowers
on my milkmaid braid?
Long skirts, long chains, and
Beatles on my radio
during their ‘Indian’ phase?

Should I
paint it all
black, strip life down to
a *******,
blare punk at full
scream,
and cram my toes in ratty Docs,
smash all emotion
into smithereens?

Should I
sugar-coat my mouth with
Maybelline, button up
collars, laughs, opinions,
read books on behaving
just like a
daydream,
sip teas, bake cookies, aim for
Ivy Leagues?

Which gilded box do I crawl
into?
Which skin to don
this week?
Which fashion editor-friendly
stereotype to fulfil?

Which girl should I be?

If you accidentally
             fall out of love,
Do you just dive
                back in head first?
           Feet first??
                     Eyes closed???
        Cannon ball????
             Or
Do you walk away
       Cause you can't swim
And you're scared to death
                   of *drowning?????