I the poet, is me the poem.
With lilting rhymes
marking the thumps
of this, this, this,
travelling heart.
With floating rhythms
concocting mem’ries–
faded and unseen–
by this, this, this,
restless mind.
With idioms and
similes, hiding the
evidences of familiar
melancholy,
and glee.
With verses sweet
oh, so, sweet,
as honey or
stinging like
a suicidal bee.
With shapes and
sizes, morphing like–
may be, maybe,
mountain, or melting
like the salted sea.
With this, this,
ten bony fingers,
with millions of nerves
and bustling synapses,
from the fenced chest,
to the skull-covered
throne of hierarchy,
this skin, this flesh,
these 206 set of bones,
are bleeding, breathing,
living, flowing poetry.
This, the poet; the poem is me.
