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2020-03-31T01:31:04-04:00April 14th, 2014|Creativity|

The feast

The poem sits inside you
like a hunter
waiting
for a weak moment
of indecision
or the lull
of your commute

and that’s when it pounces
clawing its words
into the hem of your lips

for birth is no place for grace

and your friends think it’s serene
this poetry

but they don’t see
its teeth
that if you don’t give it paper
to feast on
your friends will call for you
and find only
a stack
of bones.

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