I take this dilapidated notebook
everywhere, even the bathtub.
I like to let the hot water open
my pores, my mind, my heart.
Between the furious scribbling
I set it on my chest, waiting
for the next verse.
The weight of my words presses
me deep into the basin, the
gravity of 10,000 nights, and
I'm thankful the water is shallow,
so I don't succumb to the burden.
No, really.
Poems that Suck 