understand that when I say what
I am about to say
lightning strikes.
This is more than that
or before
or anything else
that you have known of me or what I do
I’m phrasing,
framing you and what I am learning
about all you are
with words
the tangible
with the intangible
on paper
with pen
and as an artist,
i take liberty with that
i see you,
your smile, your face
that pretty face
and I try and type you into life
how can this be so.
the breath from your nose as you sleep
can’t be properly conveyed in words
my words
the way you smell
in syllables?
perhaps i have bitten off much much more
than i can chew
trying to paint with phrases and words and sentences and punctuation
and yet
i know this:
poetry…
the art itself…
was made for women like you.
according to s.e. senter 
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