carousel by yours truly
this paper is our dance floor
as words waltz from our fingers
and we spill our hearts on the page.
please don’t stop the music of our poetry, darling.
oh, please don’t stop.
we create melodies from thoughts
as if dreams are the piano keys.
guitar strings lace our throats
waiting for the silence
to break from our lips.
and even if the earth spins
like a carousel with nothing to live for,
will you still hold my hand then?