Poems from Tess Simpson

Student. Daughter. Nonconformist.
Honey, They Were Never Really Yours to Keep
Crunchy hair on my head  and broken springs in my bed moan in pain or maybe pleasure. Stretch-out and breathe-in, blue-ink marks upon...
The Foolish Question Answered
With the toss of her mossy hair she asks, “So, why are you a poet?”   A breath of indignation releases from my nostrils. My mind races...