Random Poem (3-4 June 2013)

I am pregnant with words

waiting to spill out

from the fatness of my belly.

My breasts are heavy

with vowels that threaten to spurt.

They fill my stomach, my mouth, my ears

like little cats struggling to yelp out.

My uterus is stretched by consonants;

and I crave for vowels.

Sentences and phrases bear me down.

I stuff my face with food but it is not enough.

God knows when this gestation will end.

Do my doodles and scribbles make me a poet?

But “poet” is only a word.

And I love words;

hence there is nothing “only” about it.

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