Exodus

I've got 30 minutes to write but I've spent days falling short of poetry. 

Is the ink inside of me drying up?
What would well up in its place?


A collection of thoughts:
I'd like to collect poetry daily, like manna.
It would be refreshing in this desert of textbook reading.
"What is it?" said the children of Israel.
the taste is like honey, small flakes to turn into a variety of meals;
I'll examine poems like the Israelites.
"What is this?"
Words like honey.
Flakes I don't understand,
consumed daily.

We're grateful, the Israelites and I, at least for now.
A few years wandering may change that.
But words turn me into someone better, keep me growing, if poetry is manna
I won't just eat I'll give
I'll seek corners needing names and faces wanting recognition
--their stories untold--
Give away pieces of my heart wrapped in punctuation
until pieces of me are growing all over the world,
finding tropical breezes and blooming no matter the desert
my feet find themselves in.