After watching others create
and piece together works of art
she sadly reveals she cannot do the same.
She declares “i have ideas. I just can’t
turn them into words like others can.”

She has no idea that
She is the voice
behind them all.
She is
a poem on two feet.

Write and maybe you'll be heard

I feel the alcohol creeping in
jumping through my veins
igniting them
one by one.  
It always starts this way
a slow burning with the first sip
a measly spark,
that triggers another
and another
until my vision is blurred by smoke
and I’m a full raging fire
warming the coldness inside me.