Words written in frenetic fury
Seem best to convey long-held notions.
Desperate honesty is induced
Through the birthing of fragile things,
Swaddled in uncompromised clarity.

Backed up

“You’ve got to get a poem out,” I tell myself in bed.
“Your thoughts are stale, stagnant, and congested in your head.
Your constipated consonants are backing up your bowels.
Your deficiency in assonance: a stomach-full vowels.
Your apathetic rhetoric is sounding rather tired;
Today’s a day to hope and pray that you might be inspired.”

“You’ve got to get a poem out,” I tell myself in bed.
But I’m not sure it works like that, so let me sleep instead.



I’ve got so many ideas that it keeps me up at night
And I panic that I’m manic, and I know I’m not alright.

I’ve got a lot of feelings and I don’t know what to do.
I’m gleeful, sad, mad, fired-up– I’m radiantly blue.

I’m thinking thoughts in fragments but they’ve got nowhere to go.
I’ll write them down and hope they’re found;

Confetti in the snow.