Poetry in motion

I want to live in a house made of poetry.  At night, I would sleep under blankets sewn from poetry and dream in poetry.  In the morning, I would bathe myself in poetry.  Poetry would seep into my pores and the spaces under my nails, touching parts of me that are almost never touched.  Then I would wring poetry out of my hair and dry poetry from my skin.  I would open a wardrobe filled with poetry and dress for the day in a poem that felt just right.  I would rub poetry on my face and neck and my dry hands and elbows.  I would paint my lips with poetry.  I would run down a stairs of poetry.  In the kitchen I would boil poetry in the kettle and pour it into a mug made of poetry.  I would squeeze poetry out of the teabag until my poetry was strong enough.  In the fridge I would find a bottle of poetry and I would pour poetry into poetry.  I would warm poetry in the microwave.  I would sit down at a table made from poetry.  I would eat poetry and drink poetry.  I would eat poetry and drink poetry.  I would be careful not to burn myself with poetry.  I would taste poetry in my mouth and my stomach would feel full of poetry.  I would make a shopping list:  poetry, poetry, poetry.  Someone would remind me that we were running low on poetry, that they wanted some poetry, that there was only one poem left.  I would add to the list:  poetry, poetry, poetry.  The list itself would be a poem.  I would burn poetry in the fire to warm myself, and the neighbors would see broken poetry in the sky.  I would breathe poetry.  I would walk around with poetry in my lungs.  I would be a poem.

via wnq-writers


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