On Poems

The world holds its breath,
as she exhales in a barrage of words.
Page for page,
she’s got you pinned to a description
that is anything but right
to anyone but her,
wrangling in your whirlwind personality
with a handful of stray syllables.

She’s dreaming again,
of a place not so far distant,
in a past not so far gone,
or maybe just a future not yet forgiven.
Writing you out
because she can’t keep still
when the words are all
trapped inside.

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