To me, My words, Are my thoughts. Milk in a pan drifting, Lazily in mexican waves, On tiptoes with fingertips, Stroking the three litre line.
to you my words are the time you blinked and clots of milk swelled into pregnant pufferfishes and a siren hissed incessant incantions you swore fate birthed to hex your mind and a trident foamed at the mouth relishing the theft of nature's permission to shapeshift into a lightening bolt and to zap your stove a blistering white in three times ten to the eight metres per second
I logged into Hello Poetry today after 5 years. Found a whole heap of very bad teenage poetry (too embaressed to keep public). Maybe my poetry is still bad but I'm almost not a teenager anymore.