The words

The words long to be released and will then beg to be erased. As if the light is too bright and the shadows weren’t such a bad place after all.

Barely coherent in any language. How I'd love to give them wings. The freedom to go wherever they wish. Then there would be no need, no reason to string them together with black ink and white paper. Because my voice is going hoarse from all these repeated failures. Fingers strike random keys, but it’s not music.

Splattering them upon the walls. Knowing they will be painted over later. My best writing is always about what I cannot have. Footprints from the past trapped in dried cement.

Smearing these mistakes with my fingers, before they dry, wiping them on the back of my pants. Until it’s all a whisper. Like soft wind across my skin. Hesitant thoughts swallowing the ragged shards of their surrender.

But still they ache. The words. Still they beg.