Tuesday, April 1, 2014


Words are:
Tools, stacked up neatly
In a red-windowed shed,
Waiting to be used;
Toys, laid out sprawled
On the floor of a kitchen,
Waiting to be stepped on.

Words are the rhythm of my life:
Drum beats and sighs,
Rock and rhythm and rhyme.
Waiting to dance,
To prance,
To come alive.

Words are mine,
And not yours.

I possess them:
They sing within my veins,
Visible through
Paper-white skin.

They fall
From my chapped lips
Like rubies.

They slither
Down my reddened cheeks
Like petals of a snow-white flower.

Words are
Who I am:

I cannot be defined,
But nor
Can I be found.

Look for me
In the forest
Of pages,
Where every bird-cry
Is nothing more
Than the scratching
Of a pen.

Look for me
In the pages
Of a book.

Look for me
The words.

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I love you, random stranger. Thanks for dropping by, and for dropping a line. --Half Mad Writer