All poems by Myesha D. Jenkins ©

Overbite: a poem

flesh between enamel pulled

from that inner place deep

that inner place dark

that inner place wet

I hear the sound

the click

the clack

Precise syncopation

It calms. It soothes. It balances

when life gets too noisy.

The overbite that sometimes draws that metallic roux.

It regenerates, ready to serve.



Days are long.

Nights are hasty.

Time is scarce.

Joy must be sought where it can be found.

Tingly paste

Deft bristles

Gritty friction.

Up and down.

Back and forth.

I love to stroke back there

Removing all traces not gagging

I’m calm.

When that place out there twirls and spins on its tilted axis

I’m akimbo!

I reach for my brush and paste.

I bask in this small task that isn’t a task at all. All I am and all I have to give is a good brushing.

Royal Flush

i’mma little country
livin’ inna city
shrugged at all
dreams now just
make some cheese…

and answer directional questions


Course Correction 3975

How do you know

when the course is

not correct?


Buckets of tears

Absence of means

No ding ding dings?


Regardless of the signs

or lack thereof

You know

you know

When it sits in your gut

When it plops you in a rut.


You pay the bills

You kiss the cheek

You turn the page

You walk the dog

You pray

You laugh

You don’t cease.


“Fete” Accompli

This year, stumbles upon

Three decades and nine

A newness ushered in

Without sparkle or shine


The gift box, rectangular

With sharp pointy edges

No need to unencumber

The top from its ledges


Because the innards, yet visible

Translucent and fragile

Inevitably examined by virtue

Of existence desired to be removed


You always, not waiting

Not seeing due to flight

You zigged while it zagged

You hemmed while it hawed


Your faith, seeking understanding

yet instead sought praise

Body sought not itself

In spirit and in truth


This year, stumbles on

Three decades and nine

No hopes for recoiled rewind

Only forward and no one is coming

As Good As It Gets


Woke up this morning to his surprise

This constant thought bombarding his mind.

As good as it gets, your life, this is as good as it gets.


A yawn. A scowl. A growl.

Disbelief. Suspicion. Rejection.


There is health, love, freedom, and sanity.

But throngs of people need to want to know me!

I’m witty. I’m different. I’m special. You see?


Drip. Drop. Drip.

Sizzle. Fizzle. Sizzle.


He might be witty, different, and special for sure…

But the thought is a voice now for him to endure.

Clearer, strangely dearer

It now sits and sings…

As good as it gets, your life, this is as good as it gets.

Loudly Silent Vibration

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