the art of birthing words

The Art of Birthing Words

Shannon Crossman Poetry 0 Comments

Sometimes words come in heated pants
pushing and thrusting their way into the world.

It is all I can do to get hands in place to

catch them wild and raw
on their way out.

Other times they stick to the inside of my skull, and
I scrape them off like barnacles.
Bleeding with effort and scalded patience as they
pry off into my desperate grasp.

However they arrive, I take them.
Every last precious mouthful.
Devouring my Soul and rebirthing it onto the page.

I would spend eternity listening
if only to hold one last word crowning
it’s way into this world.

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