Here are some of the poems featured in the film “A Place of Truth.”
All are written by Abigail (Abi) Mott and are used here with permission of the poet.


The diamond glitters
Stars in the object’s eyes
She sways as she sighs
A glass to her lips imprinted with lipstick
You see her across the room
As a savior and a dream
She walks on water when you sleep
A bounty of roses, yours to keep
If only the correct words like jazz tunes
Might sharpen your tongue
Cool waters to quelch
The burn and the yearning


Rising beneath a frame
A calm motion swept up
Like so many cobwebs
Their threads shine clear
The notes eyes carry
When horror films roll there
Caught in screams
Rotating dreams give way
To a fabulous display of coats
Hung dry on racks
A memory bleeds the colors
Collected in a pool
Try to swim there
The water caresses
Rest, be cleansed
In the pools of reverence

Never Meeting

I lay on the shore as storm clouds gripped my head
With all the words I never said to someone I never met
His lover sighed imagined dream
His fingers cobwebs
Silver echoes projected just so
Increasing gently as the tide’s incoming flow
That swept the feelings dealt in beds
Of other gents who came and went

I dreamt I lay in a field of sunflowers

I drink it up
A tossed butt could light a fire
In this tumbleweed desert
Like the tortures of feeling your skin
Paper-coarse, sanding mine in the winter
I dreamt I lay in a field of sunflowers
No roads, the bees sucking pollen for dinner
And in the morning the yellow sea cascading in me


Recent words spun by Abi since she appeared in A Place of Truth. A few of our favorites, placed here for your reading pleasure.

The Moon

Wrapped in her shaw
she turns the knob,
says she’ll be back in five minutes--
and whether she means a toe
for a moment, or fifteen days,
I know she’s good for it--
if only all others
were the same--
if I could hitch a ride
and be back in good time,
I know I’d find
Neptune again--
and roll an eye
at Venus along the way--
she’s always late.
But the Moon--five minutes.


The act
of an inhale
yellow lines inside
the mountain
and a dim sense
that one should breathe
the ghosts aren’t here today
the act
of an exhale
kicks up dust
is it really like that
what they’ve all said
are we going
nuts -- listening --
suddenly remember
the act
of an inhale

The Struggle Because we love

we felled the head
to sink our teeth
within each other--
not that we chopped
ourselves up-- no no--
that we must
recognize ourselves
as entities intertwined
yet drawn to the sound
of differing currents,
or ways of
seeing that rebel
from childhood
to be held
in your voice
that hears me.

The Process

I seem to be
losing the rat race
while corporate shills
pay their bills
with my blood and tears—
How the hell did we get here?
So sure we’re temporarily
Embarrassed millionaires—
Getting up, going to work—
Bombarded with messaging,
white noise,
and filth—
Where does the meat fall
From bone? Why is it
we’re so separated, discarded,
& alone?
Only to turn around
And see it’s
a recipe for revolution-



every minute that goes by

is from a million years ago

my hearts lost in my


i think its gonna go off

on the next soul who steps

into the thunder dome

and who am i to tell you

what to do

thats the magick you

can fly right by me

i have the time Ill

explode in the stars

when i die


Like a skirt


black in the moonlight

as fingers wither

and needlework

full with pinpricks--

so the universe


reaching over towards

the end, and we small

creatures create


well-worn embrace--

perhaps irrevocably


at the base

of a tree

that dies as sweet

as we

into the star

that spills like

a glass of



It’s true that reptiles

need a lot of sun to survive—

and particular breeds of

carrot top access to swampland

where they can crawl

on their bellies,

open their toothless jowls

to consume muddy fish,

drifting stupidly

upon lily pads

that can hardly contain

their weight—a sagging

sloppy creature

that would sink ever lower but

never drain its swamp.


Strut and swing
on that timeless diamond
for creeping hours,
with bated breath
and sweaty mitt
held for offering—
spit sunflower seeds
so they may plant
under boot, under
dirty joke
scrawled on baseball
and perpetuating
in little league pockets
hoping just one day
they may
step up to the plate
and say their prayers.


Like trains,
old cameras,
stacks of vinyl—
they don’t compete
or carry their weight,
prove a thing
just wait
in sunny attics,
deep basements
for a lover
to open their case,
touch the keys,
time composing
lists of smells,
sights, bells
moving starry nights –
they sit solid
aging not by skin
but in the imagination
of old folks
like bicycles
and homemade bread
a time that was hardly simple
it just had
a few less wrinkles
. . . .
Oh, the typewriter—
use has returned
to old bones—
let them fall apart happy,
spent, unforgotten.



Abi currently lives in Denver, where she busks at the corner of 16th and Arapahoe Street.

Visit Abi’s website to order a custom typewritten poem or ask her to perform at your event. Check out Abi’s Instagram and Twitter for more poems, updates, and inspiration


Learn about the other poets featured in A Place of Truth, and discover more street artists who make a living composing one-of-a-kind poems for strangers.


(featured in “A Place of Truth”)

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(featured in “A Place of Truth”)

The Typing Poet of Frenchman Street


The Atlantic

Nashville Public Radio


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Website  Instagram