Without the words I am broken;
a piece of shattered glass on the
ground.
Holding it inside,
I might implode.
I exhale through my hands;
words I need to hear,
pouring out in a sigh.
And they cover me like a blanket,
wrapped tightly around my bones,
binding me.
Without the words I falter,
stumble along my way;
unable to relax
if I hold it all in.
Without the words…
I am silent.
I love the way this poem and the one you shared yesterday have intertwining things to say. We draw our words out of what is around us, in nature and the air we share with others while interacting with people everywhere. Also, what flows from pens onto paper often prompts more unknown, never predictable thoughts that do pour out like a sigh.
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