My Tidal Wave

That poem, the one that spills onto paper like breath,

comes as easy as adrenaline,

the one that hides beneath the skin

but opens like rose petals when brushed softly,

then that chain reaction, that rush

like the wave surfers wait for all day,

the one that shatters the calm wash,

towers over all.

That poem that comes so fast

you have to get it out,

the one that pounds at you

from the inside so you scribble it

on a piece of mail discarded at the curb,

or on your wrist, your arm,

your brand new jeans.

That poem that gleams so proudly

when you pull away, breathless,

that needs no revisions,

that leaves you stunned,

that reaffirms that, even after months

of meaninglessness

you are still an artist,

a poet, a person.

That poem that you keep to yourself

at first because it's your secret,

the one that belongs to you

and you only.

I wait for that poem like a surfer

at the shore, returning each morning

with high hopes and big ambition.

one day it will come.