Poems, like puberty
present themselves when you're least prepared,
no pen in your hand, no pad in your 'wear,
and the rush to acquire
such necessary items
leads only to leakage, to the loss of what's there.
And who but a pubert or poet would care
if the sun showered sparkles all over his hair,
and his green glowing eyes shone like raindrops
under a faltering streetlamp?
It's not as if poetry can't be progressive,
won't ripen with age,
or would be less expressive
if none of us ever had zits on our noses,
stuffed socks in our bras or chugged vodka in closets...
but still in a way they are peas in a pod,
feelings we store in the depths of our souls
and stories we sorta wish never were told,
emerge now to plant themselves onto our faces,
for all to observe,
whether we like it or not.