in which: i attempt poetry for the first time in a year

I wanna tell you that

every half-thought intention

has the same rare motivation:

a failure to realize the end.

Maybe it’s the

repeat repeat repetition

of unexplored possibilities

that remind you to hide

a set of diplomatic similes

between the cushions.

A sappy song sits like a dialogue

among the pennies and pixie

stix straws, and risks familiarity.

Elbows brush under each

blinking beat of an assumed

plot. Mislaid connections establish

each villained truth. You can

plot about me; it’s the button unmet

gazes press. (But first:) question

which loved spine

curls beneath our fictional core.

oh.. creative writing class.