it isn’t poetry

every day starts the same
a twenty seven step shuffle
to the stove and a kettle
that will whistle me awake
before i burn the house down
and you can count my silence
in teabags and empty spoons
adding up the dreams i try to bury
before i pull my heart
from one last cup
and drag light into corners
with this pencil

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A poem a day for 30 days, in honor of National Poetry Month.
This post is part of NaPoWriMo. see more here.

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