Over

Writing a poem is like vomiting.

The watered intervals before

A pieces conception are laboured in pace

But frequent. 

And then it happens,

Uncontrollable

Feeling juice everywhere!

Love

Positioned to comfort me,

Making sense of this verbal mess

Chest

Pains of the worst being over,

She says it twice over

Wipes my mouth over. 

Kiss. 

Wayne Thomas © 2011