You visited me again last nightAnd I woke up again in fright.I didn’t know what else to do.Should I have screamed? Should I have welcomed you? You bring me gifts of smoke.You’re in my head.You’re all the stories that I couldn’t write,All the shadows that never leave without a fight.You bring me gifts of light.You’re in my hand.And when you cover the entire houseYou let me see the unseen part of me.The one who feels at times denied.The one who’d write all nightUntil the …
And no more left dreams were right With no more hopes nor aims in sight. I chopped my dreams, I chopped them small Until they were all bleeding, all, all. With no more dreams to spare, How could I learn to live, to love, to dare? I buried the ashes of my dreams. Some were rotten. Some were seeds.
I have it in me This idea that wants to break free. The snow Of the A4 Says: “Come, I’ll be your home.” Black, tiny letters start running wild like a poem. Until the dark Of the ink Says: “Stop, here comes the dot.”
And maybe a word is more than a thing. It seems to laugh, it seems to cry. It is all wonders and is all a lie. And maybe we are beings drawn in words. Choking on their meanings blurred.A drop of poison in the sweet of honey.Yeast fermenting in hope and money.Knife that slays or barely sighs.Bridges forming, crossing eyes.And in the end, what is a word? Playdough.