become wisps, spirits
like seagull wings in flight
rushes of ideas, which
to me are more stunning than final drafts.
You are worth more
than bubbles on answer sheets,
short essays in high school.
You deserve to become
a love note
poetic devices stretched out along blue horizons.
You should be bowed to,
your wooden soul propped on a pedestal
and worshipped by the meek
for they shall inherit the earth
one silver-grey line at a time.
I’m gonna read this aloud tonight, y’all. It’s the perfect embodiment of everything I feel when I write, and it needs to be spoken. So tonight, at a burrito joint downtown, the world will hear my ode to a pencil. xoxo