Poetry

Inspired by a recent moment when something simple was beautiful.

I can make words into a lot of things;

I can carve them into little inside-out prisons,

Capturing flecks of souls and bits of stars

And then spilling them out like guts.

I can cut words into mirrors, black and thin,

To be glanced at for a fleeting reflection 

Or gazed into with a deep hunger

For company.

I can mold words into people and wolves

And then scrape my nails through the wet

And giving mud and say they are all

The same anyways.

But I can’t quite make words into the way

I feel when I step off the elevator 

And my music surges 

Just like I feel it ought to

Or into what I feel when I pull open

My heavy door and my dorm room

Is warm and smells like popcorn,

And my sister is curled on the bed.

Author's Note

Comments welcome!