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 -

CRASH -

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.