Living Words
I hate sharing my words on pieces of paper
As I quill images of my mind, heart and soul
Because they’re pieces of me
Real pieces of me that I hand to you,
One that cannot care less,
One that selectively chooses not to see,
One that is absent.
I write my words because I want to speak out
I want to share
I want to heal
I want to touch
I want to grow
But in your transparent hands that lack touch
My words are lost
They are meaningless
They are nothing
They are dead
These words were alive
My blood flowed through them
They breathed, then
They gasped in your hands
And they are now dead.
My words do not speak.
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