Photo by Masaaki Komori on Unsplash

cherry crush

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my cheeks blush / from my cherry crush

i love vegas in the springtime.

that’s a lie though. i hate it.

a desert chill to wreck my bones.

the sunlight crisping up my skin, feet planted firmly on the ground.

fans on, windows open.

the pollen. OH.

the pollen. SO.

the pollen. DEAD


i may become a poet yet.

but the jury continues to deliberate. i like this format.

the visual poetry. builds a pretty grave for these scattered words.

poetry cannot be taught. it can be shaped. molded. whittled. put together.

these patient words are manageable.

there is no form to my poems.

another sad love song. about you.

the neurotransmitters of my creativity wither.

i speak in slanted syllables, singing the same old song that has burned in my heart

since before eternity. before Man had Words to Speak and to Learn and to Express.

i will continue until I have no place else to go, no other door to open.

i grant myself permission to enter the room and sit at the table.

to eat / drink / be merry.

tree branch