I wear my heart on paper
Ink fills my veins like blood
reviews cut like a razor
but I’m addicted to the pen.
I pump words with every heartbeat
I hoard paragraphs in my room
I take interjections like a ******
I wear verbs like a parfum.
I’m feeling the contractions
as I erase awkward phrases
I write sad poems that feel like skin.
and fill sheets of diary pages
I blush at lurid pronouns
that I conjure then,
I consider putting word-play off
but I’m sentenced to the pen
.
.
.
*Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace
Dec 9, 2020
Dec 9, 2020 at 7:16 AM UTC
I wear my heart on paper
Ink fills my veins like blood
reviews cut like a razor
but I’m addicted to the pen.
I pump words with every heartbeat
I hoard paragraphs in my room
I take interjections like a ******
I wear verbs like a parfum.
I’m feeling the contractions
as I erase awkward phrases
I write sad poems that feel like skin.
and fill sheets of diary pages
I blush at lurid pronouns
that I conjure then,
I consider putting word-play off
but I’m sentenced to the pen
.
.
.
*Inspired by Michael R. Burch's poem: At the Natchez Trace
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