words come alive like sweating
I don’t know
if I want to say anything with this poem
we play language games
perhaps
my words lost their compass
I can’t see the north star in others' eyes

poetry happens in familiar places
crossing the street or waiting for the bus
Puff... some lunatic words green at me
when I’m sick and tired
of second hand words images feelings

Poetry is just a diversion
when I cant’ face
the calligraphy of my scars
being read only
by seagulls