These days
I don’t have to stare at the blank page
the poem thumps at my chest
like a stroke – waiting to fly to paper

I don’t write a poem
as much as I vomit it
There’s a pit in my stomach otherwise
floating, beating, kicking till I puke it away

The sick aren’t disgusted by their disease
poetry has become mine
no medicine can cure this, but
burping away in public – a loud secret – will do

I rarely visit empty white spaces anymore
everything and more is filled to the brim
with words – incoherent, sloppy, fat and plenty
waiting to turn into verses and chimes