Where does the poetry go
When it never gets written down?
I think it cries,
In the cracked corner of your frown
Where does a song go
When it never gets sung?
I think it dies alone,
Buried beneath a silent tongue.
Where do the words go,
when they’re never spoken to a love?
I think they sadly hide, like a somber face,
behind its own winter
glove…
and where are the legs
that never hop, skip, jump, or run?
They’re probably crossed in a chair
That sits in a bare room, knowing no fun
The saddest lips
Die holding their breath.
A soul that never exhales
never finds birth before death.
