The late bloomer, am I
Whose mind blossoms so;
an uncontrollable zeal
to which my imagination hoards to its pleasure,
sealed tight within mason jars
whilst the thoughts inside trip over the every bump of my tongue;
stories biting my upper lip.

I have become homeless
in my starvation of words.
Pricked by a rose’s thorns
yet there comes no blood-
better to build the scab,
before the blood comes kissing.
A flaming candle brought to my paper skin,
yet no flames.

My skin has hardened over the years,
my memories jostling with my dreams,
like the shore and the rocks.
I've learned to set boundaries
yet, somehow,
I always pull too hard
sending my body tumbling
beneath my feet.