i spill poetry the way
some people cry or laugh or sing.
it pours from my bitten lips,
gets tangled in my eyelashes. catches
on my blood-red fingernails, lands -
on a sobbing piece of lined paper,
trapped in a blue notebook.
and it may not make sense. and
it will never live up to sylvia or cummings or
my next-door neighbor.
but i'll never stop; never
be able to hold it in.
because i spill poetry the way
some people breathe.