an untitled poem
sometimes, I think I read so much that I hear words with my eyes closed
they narrate the way I make my tea
the way the sun, dappled, dances on the wooden table as I teach
the way the wind blows through my bones with such certainty and such uncertainty
the words hide behind my eyelids and scratch at my fingertips
see us
write us
tell the stories you have to tell
the words are not my friends, but they are not like other things
ones that lurk in the pit of my stomach
that sew up the cockles of my heart
that run around at night when shadows are not shadows
words are sustenance.
they may not always taste like much but they keep me and life
sometimes, I think I read too much, but then I keep on writing.
they narrate the way I make my tea
the way the sun, dappled, dances on the wooden table as I teach
the way the wind blows through my bones with such certainty and such uncertainty
the words hide behind my eyelids and scratch at my fingertips
see us
write us
tell the stories you have to tell
the words are not my friends, but they are not like other things
ones that lurk in the pit of my stomach
that sew up the cockles of my heart
that run around at night when shadows are not shadows
words are sustenance.
they may not always taste like much but they keep me and life
sometimes, I think I read too much, but then I keep on writing.
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