Kokyu Ho

The believer and the skeptic said
they preferred not to hold hands in battle.

They once picked wildflowers together,
forded rivers,
climbed trees.
As they grew older,
arthritic kneed,
they separated.

The believer says they bickered;
the skeptic insists they fought.
Too proud to admit these untruths,
they grew apart.
"I keep you alive," smirked the brain.
"Isn't it the other way around?" inquired the heart.

The moment for reconciliation arrived suddenly:
the tingling hands of the one who drove them apart,
harnessing heat,
hovered.

The believer raced
The skeptic panicked
and finding themselves unexpectedly in the tight embrace
of fear,
they clutched each other's sweaty palms
and renewed their vows.

what they never told you

When every word matters, when there is a word limit,
they never told you how swiftly writer's block would strike.
Your typing fingers are constipated,
your mind clutches for words desperately as you sleep,
your legs thrash off the covers and you wake up in a cold sweat
blinking away the after-image of a computer screen.

You no longer remember the pleasures of paper and pen
those days of carefree spiral notebooks, privacy and poetry
replaced by deadlines and judgment
(these have slowly etched themselves into your forehead
horizontally
you never knew your reflection
would turn to hand over eyes, thumb and index rubbing temples
staving off the ache of words locked in)