I wrote a letter of uncertainty
I scribed in sweet remembrance
I scripted dialogue to make me laugh, when I hurt myself
My words are drenched, in sorrows that I wrote about
I write to find joy, I write to seek closure, I write to discover craft, and I write to bare the ache,
I write because I cannot sleep
Slumber taunting me; rest being my torment
Arthritis cursing my bones, circulation strangles my palms; clots bind me not from inscription, until the last tittle
My words speak
They tell of pain and fear
They scorn, they chastise themselves, and they criticize
They are tickled in laughter
My words feel
They fall in love, they create thrill
They, of rage, avenge, they bleed and they heal
My words decide
They console, they heed to, they remove, and they disown
They corrupt, they cure, they inspire
They assert names, they tell time, and they dance
They taste of freshly leaked ink
They mediate between pen and mind
They eat away at paper and conceal blanks
They interrupt, they distract, they intensify, and they create mystery
They devote with reason, they paint images with cause, and they are unmovable
They misplace and they replace
Stories untold, songs unsung, and liberties unjustified
Read by the world
Craved by the desired
Motivates the unwilling
And taste of delicious sovereignty
I am unwritten,
My words are not.


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