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Weaves and Hits
I make poetry in my head sometimes.
it weaves in streams in between my darker
rocky thoughts,
flitering,
the concentrated darkness away.
Making the black into gray.
Making the night into day.
I like the poetry in my head sometimes.
it orbits in the crack between my skull and my brain.
Like a blind hand running
along a smooth wall of a circular room.
I hate the poetry in my head sometimes.
When it hits a tender muscle in
my neck, and hits and hits. more.
and everything it says makes my neck
more sore.
until I can't, hold, up, my, head,
or my arms or legs. and I fall
into the hole of forgotten memories and sad things.
I make poetry in my head sometimes.
Usually its velocity doesn't let it exit
the dark circular room.
But Sometimes,
the poetry turns on the light
and I am no longer blind
and I can find the door.
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