by Jessica Louise Hoffart

He walks into the room

time stands               chaotic

blood rushes    to          places

I didn’t know it could



I call him

he smiles

a book is written


a poem appears

He sees through me

the words written

on my heart

pulls them through

fingers to paper

Too      much  sometimes

I run from the burn

he leaves

within me

Not a muse

for he is

the words

the paper

the Pen


I put down to live

Too much inspiration

I may be left

mind barren


for new words

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