For the record, I do not write poetry.

I bleed it.

In gallons and then not at all.

It drowns my soul.

It pools on the floor on my kitchen.

Words linger everywhere...trapped in the dust

of my mind and memories

they swallow me.

I become them.

And they eat me.

But, just so you know, I am not a poet.

Recurrent Dream

life bumps against me

thumping edges of darkness

consuming my mindfulness...

stories of faith restore

cracks in the clay

water continues seeping

leaving puddles of mud

I feel the Potter's hand

and caressing touch

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