I tend to write my stories on the fly
with wind and rain and potholes to avoid.
I wrestle with my words; I tumble them
like pebbles, hoping something will emerge:
a thing worth saving. Sometimes it’s just dust—
the slag and shavings of my scattered mind.
But sometimes I find gemstones, treasures worth
their weight in words, and lacking paper, left
without a pen, I memorize their shapes.
I trace each curve, each corner with my tongue,
and only when I stop I write them down.
A little blank verse for the yeah write poetry slam.