When does it become a poem?
When I tumble the words around in my head like rough gems,
Examining them for facets
I can polish?
When I spill them onto the page,
Inky bright, flashing light?
Or when you pick them up and carry them,
Cats eyes
In the pocket of
Your memory?
Love the words spilling out onto the page. That’s how it works for me. Let the pen lead the way