Unformed.

My muse and I write all our stories and poems in our head before they touch paper or keyboard. Most of them begin as words flashing in neon letters calling us to follow them into the dark. And like proper wanderers, we do. Thanks for reading you fearless sculptor of unformed things from the unknown.


There it bides; untouched, untyped
slamming against bone and boredom
stalking, storming, writhing, waiting,

to be spun then sung
then strung then hung.

But,

is it slippery and sweet; unfilled with dread?
Or a thing with sharp teeth under my bed?
Does it want to kiss and caress me
love me, embrace me,
mind me, unbind me,

or slice me open for all to see?

I’ll let it out then you tell me.

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