the edges of myself

words, words, words

a poem of sorts in that my

hand is listening to brain

unfurrowing my brow in allowance,

an unleashing.

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,

make noise,

take flight.

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