Funny how all that stays unsaidis where my quiet dread is bred—this ache I’ve yet to redefine,still loath to sever the design. I cannot press these creases flat—they fold in ways that echo back,in pain that loops, again, again—no matter...

I love to simply spend my timein search of ripples caught in rhyme,to feel the weight of every wordbefore its breath is fully heard.When once again I dip my penand dare to start the flow again,I let my feelings...