I could tell you of times
poems split my skull
the moment of conception
or the hours I pace
before real pain begins

pushed from inside myself
words come screaming
in rivers of blood.
My head hurts.

You read my poetry and say
it is not pretty.  My children
do not pose coyly,
put their mouths up
for kisses

I birth hours in rooms
without doors.  You say
my words frighten you.
They should.

Strong medicine
can kill.