there’s a lot you can do with wordsbut sometimes i forget how to do any.
and sometimes i look at a keyboard
and see so many words that come together
from just some of those letters
and there’s so much to write
that i don’t write at all.
and sometimes i think
i drank deeply from the elixir of life
when i was too young
and when i drank i only drank the words
and i spilled them out in the morning
because the night was too silent to break it.
i wonder if the silence i’ve kept
is as big as the words i’ve written.
i’m not writing to be censored
it’s not like i do that to myself
when the words come rolling
and i don’t let them out,
when i’m running down the street
but don’t make a sound,
it’s not like i’m afraid to be loud.
i hope you can tell by the heat in my eyes
that my gaze turns steady as soon as i lie.
i hope you know that when i write
and my diction turns from eloquent and quaint
to fucking filthy and raging
that i’m finding myself,
even if that takes years off my life
by looking at my back in a mirror
instead of that look on his face.
and there is no one “his” in my verse,
there are dozens
and they all touched my heart-
some with love,
some with malice.
and it’s all i can do
to turn some of them into words
instead of scars in my soul and under my clothes
it takes a whole lot not to bleed.
actions cut deeper than words
but words have the barbed edges
that leave small shards.
there are memories etched in every line of your body.
there always will be.
some will fade from sight
and some will throb every time you look at it.
they say it gets easier, and maybe it does.
but from where i stand,
i think it only gets darker.