no one told me
a writer marries the paper
that wears no makeup
no lipstick
never does her hair
or colors her nails
or leaves the white bed
without wearing her white robe
and immediately after
birthing a poem
there she is pressing her
fat pale lips to my face again
with all the pent-up passion
of a fully-rested plain Jane
ready to conceive
once more
up all night writing because I wanted some sparkling revelation to offer this morning but words failed and I have nothing to show but the sloppy stains of scribbles and cross-outs maybe I'll learn som
truth aches when an overread book is continually misunderstood or when a love that needs to shout is left to linger unspoken on lips
to this swirling existence we write about so why not dabble in the dialect and points of view? use solitary clouds and footprints fresh stains and old smells the embraces of snakes turn words upside d