Julianna May

My poetry’s not beautiful
It will never catch your eye
It’s the shadows that lurk behind;
the reasons you get high.

It’s the ink spilled on the counter
The one alone in a crowded place
The words you leave unspoken
The secrets buried without a trace

It’s the squeaking of a rubbed balloon
The screeching of a microphone
Eye contact you avoid on a train
The alley you look away from going home.

My poetry’s not beautiful
It’ll never be the lines
You run to when life is hard
It’s the blood pumping through my veins

And spilling on the floor.