Poisoned

I sense the tiny impacts and look down –

it’s on my skin and I brush it swiftly off

try to hide the evidence

but now my fingers are stained

and my too big jacket smudged.

I am splattered

dusted with the ideas that fall from my eyes and lips as I read aloud the poetry

leaking from my heart

that crashes

pounds against my ribs

trying to crush the escapees

but my hands… 

my hands are cupped to catch them as they jump.

Save them, love them, hate them, fear them…

They can turn to water or wine in my mouth

they can be sugar soft or a biting on tin foil shock.

If I am poisoned

it will be by my own words.

 

©jayetomas2016

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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