In this poem, my arms are long like spaghetti. Strings of ribbon around presents. Each box tenderly mangled as I carry them for hours for days for years down the same ten to fifteen blocks into the same three to five bars ordering the same drink over and over again. I rewrite this poem about this experience repeatedly in different ways, using as many words in my brain, tempted to outreach to Thesaurus.com, until the feelings are no longer relevant to me and then one morning, when I try to open up the google doc I have been editing- I feel empty. I feel free. I think that is what writing it all down can do for me.
In this poem, I am holding an arm full of dreams
In this poem, I am holding an arm full of…
In this poem, I am holding an arm full of dreams
In this poem, my arms are long like spaghetti. Strings of ribbon around presents. Each box tenderly mangled as I carry them for hours for days for years down the same ten to fifteen blocks into the same three to five bars ordering the same drink over and over again. I rewrite this poem about this experience repeatedly in different ways, using as many words in my brain, tempted to outreach to Thesaurus.com, until the feelings are no longer relevant to me and then one morning, when I try to open up the google doc I have been editing- I feel empty. I feel free. I think that is what writing it all down can do for me.