Poured Onto the Page

There are times I feel that i am not a poet
and never will be that my lines just run
like ducks in a row out the door of some
closet in my back is not enough that
the sound of the Universe pricks at
my thin skin until i bleed words in rhythm
not nearly enough to qualify or even
that i try not to, but i appear to die
if this damn damn is stopped up
between my fingers or the bow of
my strings i sing loud laments and
shake until words let loose from
the roots of my hair and drop drop drop
on the open book where pages fill their longing with words words words

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