Each poem I craft is a living, breathing thing.

My children are scattered amongst the pages.

Some leave their legacies by blood.

I think I will leave mine in ink.

The link that binds me

Cover to cover

To the contemporary

And the classic.

The future is short-form

For short attention spans.

But I’m a rambler—

And speak up so very little in reality

That my mind is my greatest weapon

And also my greatest prison.

My creations unfurl so eloquently internally—

When executed with woman and machine,

Sounds like a plea for originality.

I have recycled the notion

That I belonged on the pedestal along with the most esteemed poets.

I put the chains on my tongue

To stop myself from pushing myself past my own threshold.

It’s comfortable in my cell of banalities

Where I am my only critic.