THEY’RE NOT JUST WORDS

Do you have any idea what it is to feel these words?

To claw them out of me, snapped and bleeding, in an attempt to feel less? In a desperate hope

to end this scattered wretched lonely

mess?

Do you know what it is

To feel the words come slicing through

To actually feel the cinders in you

And to be wary of their power?
What you read from me is not merely pretty sashaying sounds strung together to twirl their syllables through the night

My words are a fight

And they shriek from within

Desperate to touch the far-flung sides of endless light

Desirous of all that is more 

Than the tattered words I have 

Clicking and stabbing and clanking and rolling and twitching around

inside. 

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Am I 

Am I

More happy, healthy

Because the words don’t flow?

I did not intend 

To mend distress

Where rhymes cannot reap or sow —

Yet words have not come to me

As softly, as necessary as breath

Since days before the breaking-storm

That scissored my aching chest.