Poetry

You call it poetry.

You hope it’s poetry.

You pretend that it’s poetry

because these thoughts,

these thoughts that

swarm your head

invade your soul

they were meant for a life on their own.

Wrought on paper,

                     stone,

                      skin,

            tree trunks

to live a life outside of your own;

out of your cells and vessels and into something tangible.

 

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