It Fits Me

Poetry is quick like anger, slow like sadness, and

lingering like grief.

It flickers and flares

at intervals. It can be traced like emotions

highs and lows. Pour out

or be pushed forward

into existence.

Tripping and


This form, it fits me in all my sizes; conforms to my angles

and curves like a second skin.

It holds me –

forming sinew and bone,

calluses, and tender places like the

spot just behind and below the ear

when I hear it whisper like a lover,

come. Come to me in darkness; in light

fill me up to overflowing, spilling

upon the shadows where I’ve trod.

Hold candle to despair and show

the path ensnared with vines and brambles

slashing forth and urging onward.

It tells me, “don’t give up.”


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