Poetry doesn't have to rhyme?

I am taking a poetry class this semester. When asked to list off poets that we were inspired by I found myself totally at a loss. Up until that point, my exposure to poetry was Shel Silverstein and whatever Maya Angelou says when she's a guest on the Oprah show. So for this last assignment I chose to work with a medium that I have more experience in. Choose your own adventure.

Tear me to shreds, please:

Creeping over my eyes

With gently sprouting dreams,

Sleeping fast while your arms

Act to conserve me.

Two softly rock

While you whisper and sigh:

For directorial reading flip to page 4

For sternums flip to page 2

1

“I cracked

Open this sternum and

My heart crawled through,

Still attached by aorta, it brought

Me

To

You.”

Flip to page 3

2

Moving up through

My veins

You leak on top of

My head.

Using pores as

Your guide,

Threading yarn through

My scalp,

Yousewpromisesintomyhairwhileyoushout.

Yousewpromisesinto my hair whileyoushout:

For leaky brains flip to page 5

For skin wallpaper flip to page 9

3

(Reader sighs)

“We’ve all

Heard of taste buds

And stomachs

Just slowslugs,

(Reader whispers)

But only I

Know how

Your arms

Hammock me.”

Flip to page 3

4

“We look at our

Brain drips,

Oar ears

Hearing slowships,

But only I!

Know.

Your soft, lovely teeth.”

Flip to page 6

5

Eyelids overgrown

With canopied dreams,

And my mind bleeding yarn,

That runs down to my feets

You say one last thing

That will sew you to me:

For breath flip to page 8

For cardiothoracic surgery flip to 7

6

“ You laughed

While pushing my heart back into my chest. As it

Spun out the words

That at first I’d regret,

It forced out

Our secret

As you forced the heart back in…”

Flip back to cover

7

“You know?

In the sheerest of modesties

And in

Blanket tipped aepathies

It’s only your hot breaths

That could

Nourish me." 8

“The things my heart said

I’ve barely thought before,

Pumping word after word

While I died on the floor,

'The scent from your neck

Is my wrists great perfume

And with the skin from your palms

I would wallpaper my room.'”

Flip to page 6

9