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kayla morrison Apr 2017
Someone asked me what being a poet is like.
And I blushed.

Not because I was called a poet
(Which I'm not)
Not because my poems embarrass me
(Sometimes they do)

But because being a poet
Is like that dream.
You know that dream,
where you're naked in front of a class?

Being a poet, painter, and musician
Is like being naked.

You're exposed to the world,
The most private parts of you exposed.
Ready to be judged, lauged at, criticized,
And loved.

It's like the world is looking at you.
The ugly scar on your chest,
Stretch marks from being spread too thin,
Fat pockets from when you weren't strong.

Someone told me I have a comma problem,
It hurt, like somone telling me I was ugly.

I know I'm beautiful though.
I love my imperfections.
My writing is my own, unique.
No critisizm can stop me from being me.

I lay my words uncovered, unaltered
On the page. They wait, breathlessly.
Sometimes being a poet is hard and brave,
Other times it's fun and easy.

Someone asked me what being a poet is like
I said it was great, and then I started to

Writing can be scary, but it's a wonderful, beautiful thing. It's worth all the risk, critisizm and misconceptions.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
As a toddler my mom taught me
to use hands for games,
Patty cake, patty cake,
We had so much fun.

In 1st grade Mrs. Z taught me about hands.
The big hand represents the hours,
The small hand is for minutes,
And that skinny red one counts the seconds.

In high school Sarah Kay taught me
about holding hands, and hand models
She said "I read hands to tell your past."
Hands learn she said to me.

A coworker taught me to speak with hands.
Thumb in, 4 fingers up, thats "B" she said.
We could talk without moving our lips,
It was magic.

No one taught me the importance of hands,

The way you need to stretch your hands,
Reach out to the world and say,
"Here. Grab on, I won't let you fall"

How to make my hands, helping hands.
The kind with strong cracks and callouses
But they have a soft touch, gentle hands.

Hands that can stand the beating of

Hands that stay open,
Ready to accept whatever...
The world gives them.

I want to learn how to use my hands,
To inspire a nation.

Who will teach me?
I love Sarah Kay, her poem was the first thing I thought of!
  Apr 2017 kayla morrison
Is the wild west
Of the modern era, with
Vast, open space, laws with few sheriffs
Fights between groups rights and religious beliefs
Unknown connections waiting, and some rustler's crime rings
And a presence of *** overlooked when this is taught to kids
kayla morrison Apr 2017
A simile is like a metaphor.
A metaphor is a similie,
Except if it forgot "like" or "as"

A similie is like checkers,
The rules are simple, easy to follow.
A metaphor is chess,
Complex and intricate.

Think of a simile as the store brand
A metaphor is the name brand
Of anything.

Metaphors are tests for the mind,
They make you visualize
Bear Mountain.

Similies are like little suggestions,
They point you in the right direction,
The Mountain was big like a bear.

Both important,
Both fun!

I like similies
Metaphores are love.
Just having fun with this one!
  Apr 2017 kayla morrison
proud buck
frozen, close
heart in my
cross hairs

I squeeze
the trigger.

except birdsong

as if
they know
some doe was saved
from widowhood

by a
two minute poem--two minute poem has no guidelines other than it must be written in 2 minutes or less--editing is permitted, but no words may be added after the initial 2 minutes--this one "inspired" by my walk in the freezing drizzle today
kayla morrison Apr 2017
When the world is quiet,
Make its fire rage.
kayla morrison Apr 2017
The pan pops and sizzles
As I open the creaky wooden door.

The kitchen sink sings,
He washes a pepper covered cutting board.

The sounds never change,
The routine is always the same.

I count on,
"How was your day?"
And "what do you want to drink."

Dependability, stability.
One thing know at the end of the day.

The plates clink as they touch the table.
"Lets eat."
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