Words are written
all the way inside
on the back corner
of my heart.
It’s not even,
off-balance it is,
not written,
to confuse you.
You will wonder
just why it was carved
that particular way
on such ageless stone.
Far enough in
each comes to see
where I run out of paper
becomes the beating
of another’s barren cave.
The birth of a new poem.
Write it.
Kevon Simpson 2017 ©
