My poetry always exposes
the imperfect fit of my skin,
with words that run off
with the seeds of pretext.
I’m left behind chasing
an existential crisis,
no fairy tales to quell
my anxieties

Choking on a parched narrative
thinking too much.
about thinking
Too much “who?” too much me
not enough “what can I do?”

My shoes moist
and full of warm blood
I take them off-revealing my blisters
Exhausted, I sit down
and breathe in despair’s air.
watching the newspaper,
and leaves long dead, fly by me.

The turmoil traffic,
thumb to nose, mocking me,
the dark taunting me
with Medusa’s stare.
Some fool shinning a light
(as if that could make a difference)

I sharpen my lyrical claws,
fist fighting my wit,
cursing stupid cliches
telling banality to f*** off.
Wondering if that’s
how written language will end.
with a “bee in your bonnet”
and impotent pen

Waiting…waiting…waiting

for words and their Judas betrayal
to find me,
so we can release our flaws,
like a dying hooker’s last confessional,

Perhaps, this time- words
and I will join in semantic fusion,
an authentic coupling, anointed
with a whispered touch,
fertile in rhythm and verse
stirring to stir..stirred to stir.

Birthing the poetic molecular structure.
the genetic code of the spirit
Wearing multiple faces, places,
memories, hearts, and loves.
Dressed with an imagination affluent in grief

Maybe this time our monologue of loneliness and self doubt will make the soul’s late late show.

-Tosha Michelle