Need to Write

There is something in the way that you look at me

That reminds me of something I thought was lost

It lies between the uncertainty of whether you are actually seeing me

Or are attempting to see yourself reflected in my eyes

In the imperfect ambiguity of whether I bore or excite you

I find a spark of creativity that for the first time in years makes me want to

Pick up a pen

And write

The steady line of life provides a happiness of sorts; but its creativity is far from prolific

Rather words spill into the places where cracks have formed

Like dry rot seeking out the vulnerable and damp spots of exposed brick

Or the scabs that as a child gave pleasure in the danger of scaring and possibility

Of spilt blood

I feel as though you urge me on to take a risk,

to plunge into the depths of uncovered words

And I remain unsure which parts of me I am willing to reveal

And to whom...

Unsettled both by the thought that this is my imagination

And by the chance it’s not

Inside, outside

Outside turned inside

Testing boundaries and speaking in twisted tongues

Allusions and illusions, betrayal and portrayal 

Poetry made flesh

and flesh

Made poetry