new year fears
poetry, layered under her skin, pleads to see light but refuses to take form with stubborn arrogance. words dance on her tongue threaten to jump but cling to the tip like nervous divers. home is a state at the tip of her tongue. she feels the orange warmth of the familiar but unsaid words and unworded feelings ache like frozen fingers begging for the wait to end. forever a to-be poet, she lives the pleasure and pain of slow time. she isn't a poet yet. like they say: you're a poet only if you're a poet.