i see my words hurting

on a virgin page, white.

sharply crippled.

making no sense.

but like breathing, a need.

i arrange letters in a neat row,

no lines.

i see yours in mock hello,

again.

and nearby

my silence complains every day,

what to do with this

load that awaits every morning

to turn into heaviness sometimes.

other times, light as a mood.

i flounder through the day

faithful to thoughts

that accuse me with so much renewed

force tomorrow.

seasofme051012eight