‘a poem starts with a lump in the throat’ – robert frost

i want to write poetry on big sheets of paper. i want inky pens and gliding prose to rearrange the whiteness of a blank page that stares, so stark, so blindingly, back at me.

i want to write a story in rhyme, or not. 

i want it to mean something when pulled this way or that way
or no way at all. 

my own lines to time will change the world in words that mean nothing alone. 

but i’ll string them together with dreaming and heartbreak,
with honest to goodness forevers and always’. 

i’ll piece them just where i think they belong. 

i’ll change and i’ll utter the words of the world. of people, in remembering, and things, all the same. 

because poems and people are flowing through mazes
of days and time and secret hiding places built in forts as children, built in others when grown.
in their hearts, in their stories, along the threads of our own.

within a life we make from the choices we’re given,
between yeses and nos.
and i’ll write the prose of the poems and people, all just the same. in this world. on that edge. balancing between falling and 

falling.

thoughts?

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