Ars Poetica

October 18, 2018

Circa 2015

 

To My Poet,

 

I am a cursive body
running laps on your notepad
telling you the story
of how we first met.

 

I am the best type of tickle —
a spark that lights your spirit,
warmth — like the sound of good morning.
I will be bittersweet — the first bite
of a fresh peach, the color green,
stars dripping — Apogee.

 

I’ve heard my words can make you weak.
I speak because your thoughts shriek —
bullet holes decorate the page, your brain
wants more, and we both know
this gets messy, but we both feel it —
something raw is ripening inside your mind.

 

Together — we are open
to interpretation, acclamation,
coughed up confessions
that have us convinced
certain emotions don’t exist —
language may sway, wobble,
and even pulsate, but language
alone will never explain the way
you create me. I feel

 

Wild and alive and fuck
I feel good. Write me —
passion like this
has never felt so rewarding.

Please reload

Recent Posts

October 18, 2018

October 18, 2018

October 18, 2018

Please reload

Archive

Please reload

Tags

Please reload

NY & MA

©2019 by ericabvrreto