A Palmful of Metaphors

I’d like a palmful of metaphors, 

Ones to use every time 

I put a pen to a page, 

To plant in my heart 

And become submerged in my hope, 

My pride and my sadness, 

Sprouting ideas for me to translate 

Into words tangible for a poem, 

The blossoms stories 

That have a direct thread, 

Carefully spun gold, 

To my heart, 

Carrying back the excess words 

To water the ones just beginning; 

I’d like torn pages 

With verses written plainly, 

But with the meaning 

Needing the love mapped by creases 

In order to arise; 

A watch that's glass will chip 

Away with time, 

A band creased 

And frayed 

With every moment 

I never want to forget; 

A pen that’s just the right weight 

To match that of words, 

With ink that makes stories 

Look too perfect for stories, 

So that I have to smudge them 

With my palm 

To make them tied 

To my heart.