Some days,
there's a hole within:
a gaping mouth,
a wailing baby,
an empty gnawing hole.
Its crying maw draws me in,
want to hold it,
want to forget,
want to feel the rain
well up inside me.
Tears are a waste,
feelings unshared,
rain
bitter to taste.

Maybe that's why
words cascade,
phrases weave.
The rhythm of write,
of read,
of spell.
The words carry pain,
take and release,
a portal to childhood,
mnemonics of dust.

I write to forget
and reread later,
but sleepy dog ears
mark where they lay.
Best left alone
but words are guns,
and sticks and stones
bring thoughts alive.
A tiger's tail,
one verse,
more to follow
falling down like water.
St-st-stutter
when I speak
tangle,
tumble against cheek.
A running brain,
walking voice,
road-kill
trips and sticks to cusps.

Pens indent paper
Braille emotions,
ground for a farmyard,
chicken's feet.
Writing's rhythm,
cross and dot,
chant, laugh,
talk and bite.
Music of a tongue,
a lilting note,
heartbeat,
swollen gut.
Like forget-me-nots
took root again
returning in
the summer rain.

I write because
I need to speak,
need release,
need to find a way,
need to make sense.
This macrame
life knotting,
curling,
tangling,
like words in my mouth,
straight in hand.

I write
because I know nothing else.