notes on words

the words have been pouring in, floating inside of me just to

dance their way out from my fingertips.

the words enjoy the romance of a writer’s hand, they say.

they revel in the physicality of becoming, the shapes

they transform into as I bring them to life on the page.

but the words don’t care for time- they interrupt

as I cook dinner or lay my head down to dream

and as I frantically search for a pen, I ask them:

why now?

I have always had a lot to say

it just seems these days

the words I need to express what’s inside just appear

without me searching or sitting endlessly in silence

waiting and cursing the most cruel trick

words have learned how to play:

writer’s block.

Maybe the words poured in this way before

and I was just too busy to dream, tying others’ opinions

of who I should be around me with a bow

and staying stagnant as I discovered how heavy

expectations that are not mine can be.

like a brick made of projected failures and heartbreaks

with none of the enchantment of my own hopes and dreams-

the sadness of a stranger’s past is massive and

much more dense than concrete.

how could I have noticed the words swaying in the air

carrying around all that weight?

how could I have noticed the words living someone else’s truth

and slowly dying to myself?

I see the words now and I understand why

without them having to say anything.

I write them all down then scoop up their magic with my hands

and bring it with me

as I begin the journey of living

in the lightness of being

who I truly am.


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