Ars Poetica

Somedays I can’t speak.
The words shrivel up in my throat
and my lips shut tight.
But they are there.
Racing through my synapses,
playing tag behind my eyes.

I see letters, jumbled and
heart wrenchingly lonely.
They need to be solid,
not just volleyed breaths.
But am I solid?
Am I worth more than a glance?

Thoughts are beautiful,
but I’m not.
Words can sing,
I sound like a drowning cat.
Letters fly and tumble like acrobats.
I’d rather not.

But there’s no denying
that sense of peace that
your fingers register,
and it travels to your brain,
as your eyes fasten their sights
on the tip of lead touching paper.

The scritch-scratch of loops
and cursives on something pristine.
The way the wind rustles and
crinkles a leaflet.
I won’t stop indulging
in my favorite vice.

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