This is
not a poem
(nor a pipe).
Poetic prose?
Negative space in my heart,
crashing against what it is
not.
Too literal…
Telling, not showing.
Let the image carry the message.
What if I don’t know how?
My chest is a hollowed hull
of nothing-ness.
Who will tell my poem,
that it is
not?
Naught.
Knots in my mind
that don’t know how to unwind
these flimsy
words
in ways that will catch your whimsy
or connect to the negative space
in your heart.