a poem of sorts in that my
hand is listening to brain
unfurrowing my brow in allowance,
i ate poems for breakfast when i
was young– crammed
them down my throat voraciously–
bathed amongst them– allowing
their words to drip from my
body to dry.
i dabbled in love and heartbreak
at a tender age and asked my
poems to narrate my journey.
the innocence and naivete washing
across the page in angst and rhyme.
These days as i reconfigure– pick
up my pieces and sort them back
together– again the verses flow
from the back of my mind to the front
asking the little girl grown into woman
to step forward– open armed,