i keep looking for creativity in the mountains i drive
through & the skies above me but i'm starting
to realize it comes more from within.

i'm hoping to write more poetry
this summer, every year i
live i want to have written
more & more

this will be painful, each sentence a bee-sting.
it means opening up & digging down
deep to my roots and farther
beneath.  

to throw a rope-ladder
into my soul and
excavate every chasm that
makes me who i am.
unzip my skin to let my bones show,
carved into my ribcage,
'this is me.
this is happiness,
hurt
pain
anxiety
love. '
a mess of emotions crowded
into the same small
room.

these are my back roads,
my alleys that lead to the
backyard of my mentality.

words are a form of transportation.
leading down streets of confusion
and pain
that bring me to your doorstep.
i always end up here,
your arms, my home.