Poetry

The pen in my hand is a snake in disquise
helping others pretend - helping me to seem wise
The notebook beneath me is simply a whore
who prefers to be "filled up" - replaced - then ignored
The words that I choose - they're like double-edged swords...
they suggest brighter days by acknowledging storms
And the poems that these storms will produce - cause a flood
by re-opening wounds and re-tasting the blood