Teeth to Paper

I could gnash my teeth in some form of sputtered word,

drool down over the white sheet until blue and red ink bleeds.

Bled.

In all technicality, here, I could speak the written word until eyes glaze over.

A stage of my single body, a crowd of faces shadowed in black.

No lights to break their glossy hearts, sharp with ice.

Glistening wet lips, ready to rip my art shred to shred.

Lay that review over me,

let me know what part of literature I missed.

What major I didn't achieve,

of what poetry is.

Ought to be.

For what is a green bowl of lettuce,

is my spoken word.

I'll take the flakes of fluttering broken white over green any day.

For if I could draw the ink pen down against my veins,

I'd hope it bled black, not red.