Purge
If I don’t write something soon l’Il burst
in a flurry of pent up frustration like a pigeon
popping from gastrointestinal inflation —
that could be me today, a feathery confetti.
If I don’t get these words out on the page fast
my head might crack, my car might crash —
spraying stardust and moonshine on the side
of the highway to high heaven. I must relieve
this aching urge for a poetic purge and
whatever
shouts come out shall be fodder for the birds.
