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It's Raining Poetry
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On Poetry Words sometimes
come in trickles,
just enough
to dampen my lips
with tasty purpose.
But when it rains
cats-and-dogs,
it’s a little startling
how my pen will glide
at a heated pace
just to dry the sheet.
What if the downpour
beats too hard against
my mind’s windowpane
that I can’t make out
its distinct language?
And umbrellas must be
hesitantly opened to
stop the pain from pouring
out of reopened wounds?
No more! I will
let them leak out and
drench my face
with salty inspiration
until rainbows appear.
I will pray to God
these lands never
experience a drought,
lest a parched tongue
be stunned into silence.
