My Poetry

 

My poetry is a fastball, sailing

through the wind, 93 miles per hour, slicing

the air like a child’s paper plane.

 

It flies until it hits the batter’s mouth,

causing blood to seep out of teeth’s new holes,

gushing to the ground, the way I bleed poetry.

 

My poetry is the ambulance rushing

through the crowds, racing to save the one.

As the bandage is placed, and all is healed,

 

he forgets the scab that used to be, fears

the one that is to come. He soaks in a bath,

peels it off his skin, embraces my words.