Young poem seeking refuge

  When the words comeMy body softens.I touch finger to lipsTo feel I am real,A sensuous beingLike sap risen willowDrawn by the fingered Promise of spring. The words push through My turgid skin,Bursting to be discovered.They lay sweating on the surfaceBeading into groups of discernable legionsWaging war on the world of sound. They shout from stained page“Hear me” My voice says“Hear me” They caress me with theirBeguiling singular simplicityThen domino lined They take shape.Columns all moving in unison. A poem is bornFrom the womb of my creativity.The placenta is dark and brooding,Aftermath of stimulation.As surrogate mother I disconnectAnd push it into the world of words Here it lies. Awaiting discovery from one who wishesTo make it their own