Don't Hold Your Breath

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.