just because you wrote it doesn't make it poetry
"A woman who writes feels too much"
You said there's a magic that embroids pantomime into my pupils when the sun slips past the night break of my lips. That I grow stark like a bare moon withdrawn into the veils of madness opal winds vicariously whisper lies to.
Oh yes, silence is a genetic abnormality that festers in my soul like a cancer on display for gilded fears barricaded behind gnarled bars.
I've spoken of pretty nothing's and wracked the shaken memories of ugly everything's as if my boundaries hold no modesty; as if my tongue never swells or my mind never lessens.
My brash mouth welcomes you like swollen flesh, yet you tremble in the wake of my lax demeanor; my sudden invasion heavily cloaking the dim humming(s) of thing's I've only tried to visualize as quietness.
"I never know what you're going to say next.."
I like that.
I like the anchor that pulls you into the black waters of my ever-so-flooding thoughts. That my tides push-and-pull and wax-and-wane the limitations of your wonder like the crude attention span of a spoiled child.
But my silence is only mine to hear; to listen for and hold delicately like a paramour lover who bruises sanity in all those tiresome ways people keep secret. Emotive and overwhelming.
Just like the spell of a printed poetry even I can't truly understand.