new year fears

by ashwinia

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
like they say: 
you're a poet only if you're a poet.