I don’t identify as straight because it implies that everything else is crooked.
The words put themselves together.
A rhythm flows like petals fall,
my pen sways over paper’s eyes,
whose lines coax the ink’s words; them all.
Words of the quiet are well traveled, words from a windbag fall to the floor.
Stating the almost obvious.
My mind thought it; voice spoke; body built it.
People with the
least to say
talk the most.