I speak in visuals and metaphors
Every love I ever had gets caught in the webs I've spun
I speak in a history of blood shed and sweat dripping from pores
I'm not surprised when they can't keep up.

The words that I speak
The ones that slither from their old skin
Curl up on welcome mats
and read books starting with their end

They are from my mother's garden she used to have
They are from my grandmother's church
They are from my sister's old box of acrylic and oil paints
They are from the palms my father used to burn

They say all good poetry comes from the heart
Whatever is left of mine writes in tongues
It's inspirations are Wilde, Dickinson, and Poe
But it speaks from where ever I consider home

Poets speak from what they know and what they wish they did
The terms they use and the visuals they paint with are from the books they've read,
the imagination and dreams they had as kids,
how they were raised, how they spent their days, and the moments they couldn't leave bed