all my poems
have become people.
i've tried the imagery, the
rhyme, the stanza,
the verse.
but i think i'm cursed.

sometimes it's him,
or her,
or them.
sometimes when i start
a line
it twists into a familiar shape
and the poem is a polaroid
slowly appearing.

i've collected people
and things
and ideas
and they all weave together
like a novel.
more and more these poems
seem like snapshots,
or a failed attempt
to capture
all the little things that make
him, her, them
beautiful and real.

maybe i'm on a quest to feel
or on a journey of commemoration,
but the people i've let in
have stolen my pen,
my poem,
my heart,
without an invitation.