My poetic socks

Are my favorite thing to wear.

They always fit right,

Feel right.

They always keep me warm,

Full of life.

They keep the blood pumping through my words

So that my poems pulse,

Beat like my own heart.

I wear my socks everywhere,

Used and abused,

24/7.

If you see them,

You'll see holes,

Scars.

They aren't shiny and new.

No, you'll know,

You'll know they belong to one

Who has music, facts, and language

Flowing in her veins,

Through her beating heart.

But I take good care of them;

At least, I try.

I try and wash them

Every day

Through and through

In inspiration,

And I use words to scrub out the kinks.

I dry them out

In the warmth and light

That radiates from my personality,

From my happiness,

From my smile.

I iron them out with grammar rules,

Ugh,

Just enough for that nice crease;

Just enough to get a poem out of them.

I rarely take them off.

No, I keep them on to stay warm

But sometimes it happens.

I lose them under a dirty pile

Of life, work, and misery.

I forget them,

Leave them behind

With a jar of my bottled up emotions.

Sometimes I curse them,

Commit suicide

By draining my words and my lifeblood.

But sometimes, they get knocked off.

Especially when I see a new poet come in,

Dangling her words

Like dog treats,

Throwing them out to whoever will catch them

And BAM! I get smacked.

My poetic socks get knocked off.

I get a new thread to sew into them,

New inspiration to wash them in.

I renew them,

Relove them

Never recreating them.

I celebrate

Because I'm warm, full of life,

Again.