let me feel alive

when i was younger

i wrote poetry

feverishly and hungrily,

and god,

was it raw.

not raw in the sense of a

thunderstorm or the

feeling of blood coursing

through your veins.

It was raw in the sense of

a cake that is still batter,

too soft in the middle

or a still pink steak.

gross to look at,

gross to eat.

my poetry was not

a smooth piece of glazed pottery.

it was a lopsided piece of clay

covered in my grubby fingerprints,

with no effort made to smooth it out.

my poetry was messy

unfinished

unrefined

but it was mine

and that was all that mattered.

Written by C.D.

Best submission for August 2020- Rhyme or Reason