I think we are gonna be friends

A poem is never born out of nothingness

like a storm over a midwestern field.

A poem rips and shreds its way into existence

devouring all it sees.

A plague of words and phrases fluttering about

and clouding the mind black as pencil dust.

A poem’s favorite dish is one like itself, another poem,

perhaps even greater than it will ever be,

echoing through the brain unaware that its scent has awoken the unrelenting beast.

And when the birthed poem is finally satiated,

gorged and satisfied on its comfortable paper couch,

it too will be plucked up by another curious soul. Eaten and digested

in a bloody display of beautiful, predatory cannibalism.