8.2.2016

There is so much that I don’t say. That never passed my lips. Never even gets the chance. It just stays caged up inside the soft sponge inside my skull. It makes such a racket. 

These words are the ones that escape, not through my mouth, but through my bicep, forearm, wrist, fingers and tips, pen-nib, ink, paper. I keep reading  them, like my mind wants them back. It can be selfish like that. 

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8.2.2016

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