This is a poem for the poems that are not ready yet
a poem for memories that have not yet reached the surface
a poem for miseries I refuse to accept

I'm not sure what the purpose it serves can possibly be
all I know is that even in the smallest way, I need to get these other poems
out of me .they are rotting my body.they are moving around harshly.

as a poet, I write when I am upset, I write when I am elated
there are still things I have to much pride to write of
things that swell in my wrist that I have not yet gathered inside
to see created into one of mine. To see breathe and become alive.

poets. poor miserable happy poets.
how do we survive.