Monsters are everywhere
waiting.
They point to the tomatoes
growing in the dark.
They peek at me
behind the trees
while I crouch closer
to the roses
because the pedals’
mosaic of color–
jagged and crooked–
like the rose
on my finger
that hurts
to hold my pen against it,
reminding me that nothing is wrong,
but as long as I write,
that mark
will never go away
Read more (and submit a poem of your own) here.
Leave a Reply