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Apr. 16th, 2011 02:12 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dreamcatchingsOccasionally I find my words, golden and flowing and there. I find them sitting, waiting for me as though I was the one who walked off and left them alone. They swim and sing and coax. I feel like something again. They're not the words for work although I have more and more of those that I collect and pin together. They let me write at work as if they do not know how dangerous that sort of thing can be. Once I turn one phrase, I want to turn them all over and over, find their secret places and unlock the hearts of the words. Twist ribbons of language to bind my hands in. They do not know how they tempt and torture me with the little I am given. They do not know what they do.
I am what I am and I am this. I am the flowing phrase and the word drawn out and lucid on your tongue. I have five meanings in a handful of letters held together by something that says hope. I do not know how to be this, and we hurt each other all the time because I ache with it and lie dormant and withdrawn without it. I do not know what to feed it, and it wants everything inside of me. There is so little to feed this fire, its phantom flames curling out from my heart.
My skin fits and does not fit here. I write strings of words in RP that read like lines of poetry or song lyrics. I embed myself so deeply into them that I ache keenly. I never asked to be word made flesh. I am no good at keeping either part happy. It hears music, and it goes, "Why can't we be that?" It reads a poem and begs, "Why can't we be that?"
All I can do is tell it, "I don't know. I'm sorry. I never made the connection."
I am what I am and I am this. I am the flowing phrase and the word drawn out and lucid on your tongue. I have five meanings in a handful of letters held together by something that says hope. I do not know how to be this, and we hurt each other all the time because I ache with it and lie dormant and withdrawn without it. I do not know what to feed it, and it wants everything inside of me. There is so little to feed this fire, its phantom flames curling out from my heart.
My skin fits and does not fit here. I write strings of words in RP that read like lines of poetry or song lyrics. I embed myself so deeply into them that I ache keenly. I never asked to be word made flesh. I am no good at keeping either part happy. It hears music, and it goes, "Why can't we be that?" It reads a poem and begs, "Why can't we be that?"
All I can do is tell it, "I don't know. I'm sorry. I never made the connection."
