Paper, Ink, and Sweat

Words swirl inside my head like pillars of light, I grasp onto the strands and wait: I wait for them to makes sense, Incoherent buzzes of truth are all I have. Like a lump of clay waiting to be formed, Crumbled paper, cold ink, and the smell of sweat Become my molded masterpiece; Sometimes a tear or a smile in the recipe. An artist with a secret for only paper to know, Paper and people willing to understand: Incoherent buzzes are often misunderstood. but the artist will weave a tapestry. A tapestry of words that swirl inside my head, With colors of emotion waiting to make sense, I weave a tapestry with paper, ink, and sweat.