Words swirl inside my head like pillars of light,
I grasp onto the strands and wait:
I wait for them to makes sense,
Incoherent buzzes of truth are all I have.
Like a lump of clay waiting to be formed,
Crumbled paper, cold ink, and the smell of sweat
Become my molded masterpiece;
Sometimes a tear or a smile in the recipe.
An artist with a secret for only paper to know,
Paper and people willing to understand:
Incoherent buzzes are often misunderstood.
but the artist will weave a tapestry.
A tapestry of words that swirl inside my head,
With colors of emotion waiting to make sense,
I weave a tapestry with paper, ink, and sweat.