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On Anis Mojgani's Bad A** Poetry.

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On most mornings words must cut into me like little tiny pairs of scissors
And dig through my flesh and muscle with even tinier shovels.
Most of the time they do not make it all the way into my
Beat skipping
Skin sweating
Star gazing
Heart.
They stop, just as he, deep between my breasts,
Begins to hear their muffled cries.
Your words are different.
They shoot through me like really big bullets.
Pierce through my flesh and muscle
So quickly and skillfully that my brain
My brain cannot recognize the pain that it should.
My brain, it stalls when these words enter my body because they are to advanced for its practices.
The words are in my heart now.
He slows down and every beat is
Slow
Every beat is
Precise
Every beat is
Beautiful





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