Poetry is the oncoming car

Words are the waves on the page. Look:
Ink blotches, and patchwork stained fingertips,

Broken number 2 pencils and bleeding palms,
Bandaids hastily applied both rubber and written.

The tortured screech of writing as it drags,
The smell of smoke as it skids on the lines,

Like the air before a scream. Is it dense?
Does your eyes flutter? Heart stutter? Is it gritty,

The black of asphalt melting underneath soles? souls.  
It looks like a car rushing towards you: flashing lights.

Flickering a message in morse code, horns are blaring
as it gets— objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. 

Put your foot on the accelerator, meet it head on
Melding yourself together and melting into the asphalt .

How valorous you’ve been! Do not flinch
At the grinding bones, hot metal. We’ll fall,

apart. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust,
return to the core of your being. 


Find what hurts, and bleed onto the page.

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