In learning we don't have to always share a bed with fear,
it's those flashes of chance that bring out our poetry:
when we abruptly trip over the words we hastily collect
to sound off a feeling so explosive, that
even when it's mumbled with restraint,
it still sounds like fireworks.
and I wish I knew just how your stare looked
when you'd find the moment to strike your match,
and ignite whatever you've readied yourself to say,
but smothered the flame out of worry that you never could.
Just so you could know that you don't have to sleep tonight
with the fear that I'd never want to hear your poetry—
I love the sound of fireworks
when they're coming from your mouth.