This poem is a bad idea –
a reflection of words that stumble
out of my mouth as I talk to you
but nerves outweigh my ability
to speak coherently.
It’s nothing more than an afterthought
coming in to save your day from me.
Am I mumbling inconsistently,
or forcing words into sentences?
Wait, can you hear my truth?
This written mess is my gift to you,
picked up from a pile of jumbled thoughts
and placed together with no effort.
Do you like how I color my words?
Unrhymed, like a barren desert.