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.
writemeagalaxy 