i am force-feeding myself
in order to prevent significant poetry loss

i am letting my brains spill into my throat
so i can spit the words out when the moment comes

people are much too beautiful, sometimes
others chisel away at our reputations
and i dont mind much except that it makes me self-conscious
i put my hand up to my forehead to see if there's a temperature
(and for the number of times i've embarrassed myself, i should have a fever by now)

there is something so raw (foods diet) about true love
not cooked by the heat of lust and desire
just made of the natural roots growing out of my hair and the palm leaves of your hands that cup my chin like a coconut when i let you take a sip at my lips
and our tongues (little minnows) run together like streams

i like that.