Whenever I speak, it seems to go south;
Something shifts, tangled from head to mouth.
What I meant to say gets muddled, confused,
Yet on paper, my thoughts feel soft and unbruised.
Poetry’s my compass, my steady guide,
The muse I trust when I can’t confide.
I’ve found someone who, to me, means the most,
Yet with one wrong word, he could turn to a ghost.
I don’t want to lose him; he’s my only one,
The one meant for me—my sweet sugar plum ***