you feel like poetry/

sharp, like edges on a fresh page.

that cut if you don’t handle with care.

you feel like poetry/

warm, like a flame can,

if you get just close enough to it.

what’s the difference between close enough and too close?

and at what point are you too far gone?

i swear, i can’t tell the difference these days.

or perhaps, i just never learned to tell.

you feel like poetry/

real, like poems you read so many times, they archive as true stories do.

what was real

and what was not ?

i guess, that just depends on who you ask…

the writer or the muse.