There are words under my skin
racing along my veins, carved into bone,
supercharged, demanding to be set free,
waiting for their chance to break out
of a fleshy prison that can’t hold them forever.
They tell me to carve a pen out of blood and bone,
to write along the walls and the floor and the sky.
Keep writing until the words are free, blasting out,
sprawled and scrawled onto and into everything.
To not stop till I’m shaken and empty, until
And the words are always there.
They pulse and claw, beneath my skin,
ready to make their break for it, not waiting,
impatient, looking for a gap to squeeze through,
to shove through, onto stone or paper or
the edges of napkins, stealing their freedom
however they can.
But I wonder, worry, sometimes,
about what will happen when I’m left
drained out, all out of vowels and verbs,
nothing left but flesh and blood and bone.
What will I do without my words?