The Paradoxical Landfill

My hands can belt out all the words I wouldn't even dare whisper
stanza upon stanza filled with feelings,
allowing emotions to gasp for breath after being under so long
beneath the tongue, beneath the skin
beneath that space that feels so hollow and ragged when you're sad

What I'm left with is such a catharsis, such pure air in my chest
that only birds and mighty trees can attest
to write is to breathe, to fill notebooks and computer space
with extensions of what I can only call myself.

Hands and fingers, they fill and fill and fill
and at the same time create
something both ugly and beautiful
this is why I write


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