Between the thunder and lightning/everything counts in lovely intervals/an entering into/and a pulling out/by the springboards of wordless echolalia/until the sky cracks open/and something new beyond us/begins to storm

Whoever architect
The Universe

At first
With a noble purpose
The Sun may have been made
Then
The human may have been
Designed

Among human
They may have decided to gift
Some as an artist
Among Artist
With the soulful ink
Came Poet/Poetess

That time
Something may have gone
Wrong
Most had writer's block
Most often

Finally
A moon may have been made
To amuse the poet/Poetess

Since then
They are musing
They are mused

My mouth can’t stop itself
from spilling stories I should hold back
but my art tells more of a story than my words
ever could.

I am from forgiveness and compassion
from choking laughter and long stories
like my father.
I am from acceptance
resilience in the face of adversity
like my mother.

I claim roots in the crystal lakes and hushed nights
of Traverse City.
In the sweltering warmth of the summer sun and the shady trees
in Colleyville.
Nature makes me feel at home.

I could try to rhyme but
my words seem to stumble
when I’m not lamenting about rejection and heartbreak and
loneliness
but there are times when my brother’s laugh
is the only sound I hear.
My friends embrace me
with their inside jokes and nicknames

and my body can’t contain the joy

when applause rings in the stadium under fluorescent lights
or echoes in the auditorium
conceals itself in a reassuring smile
or glitters in the eyes of my dogs

my heart lies in superheroes
and unfocused imagination
a human goodness that never fades
a dream that might come true

I could tell you all about the characters
that live in my mind and on my sketchbook
but I’ve been told to hold back
save it for the movies

I plan to do
just that.