Where Are You?
Some poetry are stories,
There’s no hidden meaning, the author speaks plainly, grabs you by the hand and takes you on a journey.

Words bring forward stars to forge a world from the ink, breathe, your heart will write.
Some poetry are stories,
There’s no hidden meaning, the author speaks plainly, grabs you by the hand and takes you on a journey.
In the middle of a headache
I imagine my nerves are the roots of a tree.
A gentle caress from familiar fingertips
a longing to be wrapped up,
completely surrendering
to a past intoxication.
These bones are iron
to sink
and shake.
She did this to herself.
Oblivion would be greeted with open arms,
and you will be turned away at the door.
Words bring forward stars,
to forge a world from the ink,
breathe,
your heart will write.