We will leave you in the midst
of a poetic truce, as you spill
experiences into our open palms.
Writing to make sense of what
has happened, nestling your
deepest secrets in our fingertips.
Our roots so deep in our poetry,
if you tried to unearth us, we would
shriek louder than banshee's.
Unravel our words, enter the
labyrinth of our minds, there are
sunsets in our stomachs, and
December runs through our veins.
We are the stars to your blank skies,
the pause between each ragged breath,
the tragedy suffocating the air.
We are the pause before the applause,
we are rarity's like Haley's comet,
making you scramble for a telescope.
Only crows writhing with broken
necks are more twisted than the life
stories resting under our tongues.
We are poets, engraved in history,
fluent in all that is artistic and worldly.
Poetry is a warm blanket we remain
hidden in on a cold winter morning.
Reality is a cold floor that our
bare feet are too scared to touch.
*By Rapunzel and JannaLee Perry