A few rows of words

My mind is not my own,

I tore it from the pages of Kafka, and Borges.

My heart is not my own,

I snatched it from the lines of Hemingway and Dostoevsky. 

Without those rows of words, my body sits idle, 

swaying there or here but mostly nowhere.

In their absense, each thought of mine dissipates with such vaporous ease, much like vinegar, much like gasoline.

In their presence, my heart beats with the rythm of a woodppeckers peck, the conquerers drum.

A few rows of words and I am who I am, my own making of parts of others.