But I can’t help it.
My words form stanzas
all on their own.

And
         jagged
                  broken
               lines.

Prose. Sharp neat line after sharp neat line that goes on and on forever forming endless boxes of words how do I stop when do I breath where am I can you find me?

Did you know.
His eyes
and your sky
turn into my words and
this is all I have.

Poetry is all I have.

Take it from me and all
you will have
will be cold
frigid
air.