My mind is a labyrinth of riddles and mistakes
And stories my heart yearns to share.
My mouth is numb and stiff,
A silent machete destroying the tangles of my brain,
Hacking and sawing what’s left of my tales
Until they’re nothing more than forgotten whispers.
My hands are the gentle caress of a mother’s kiss
Coddling the injured fables until they’re hugging one another
And tangle themselves in my mind once again.
But the pen in my hand, the ink pressed firmly against
The worn pages of my leather journal, tells my stories.
My pen shares the insight and confusion,
The joy and the woes of years of
Experience and failure, rises and falls.
My words tend to splinter, tearing apart my pages
Like they tear apart my heart.
But the pen in my hand, ink on the pages,
Heals my soul just as much as it destroys me.
Words, words, words, breathe in.
Words, words, words, breathe out.
It’s a process as much as an art,
A prescription that I must take once a month,
Once a week, once a day.
The more often I take it, the better I feel.
But moderation is necessary, for if I use it too often,
Too quickly, too dangerously, my heart will be left open
And my feelings will ooze from my throat
Like pus from a gaping wound.
I will tell everyone my secrets, my most painful memories
And be torn to shreds when no one cares.
Words, words, words, but not too many.
For words fail to have meaning
If expressed too often, in too many stories,
In too many of my poems.
But even few words have the power,
The momentum, the force, to save my life.