I wrote something once.
I don’t know where it came from,
or when it will come again.
I try so hard to put words on a page
so I can feel like myself,
but still they don’t sound like me.

Words burn in my chest and
I can’t spit them out.
Beer cools them, and so I drink it.
But the words go to my heart
and they squeeze and squeeze
and then I lose them.

They mean much to no one,
and not to me.
But left alone they squirm
and squeeze and shout
so I can’t hear what they mean
or what I’m trying to think.

I can’t get rid of them.

When I listen, they help.
When I don’t, they burn.
I want to spit them all over,
so you can feel what they do to me.
But only if you’re ready.

They’re like worms, the words.
They eat, and sleep and breed,
and there’s more of them.
And there’ll be more tomorrow,
and if I can’t get rid of them
they’ll eat me alive.

When I put them on a page,
they stay still.
And then more come,
and I’ll catch them too, hopefully.
Then they’ll stay still
so you can see them.

The words.


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