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:
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:
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.