Poetry is Dangerous

gold tipped words
swirl about my head,
demanding to be let out.

while the laundry piles,
the dust gathers,
the pantry grows depleted.

but how can i choose these mundane tasks
when pen and paper beckon?

poetry is dangerous, i tell you.

come night my task
is to close my eyes,
to rest my tired body.

but how can i choose sleep
when anger scorches my weary breast?
when words, bearing witness to my pain
cry out Oh!
one more, one more!

--bruised orange