PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

My quill speaks slower than me…

a good thing, that way I can’t get ahead of myself

and tell innocent paper things I’ll regret.

My quill sneaks its way into every corner

like dreams and desires and battleships,

but maybe that’s a good thing when I’m breaking

My quill falls with me for humans

I don’t even know, I learn the second

letter of their names and I’m already gone

My quill repeats metaphors with me

so I can try to understand those humans, why

I can’t build them a perfect world with my fingertips

My quill is sometimes stronger than

everything I am wrapped into one, so

I shove it back on the shelf, I want to be weak

until I remember how easy it is

to empty myself with a simple word

and start over with blank faces

I bite my howling words, shriek

as the paper turns black with too many heartbeats

and past footsteps, the ink feels too much like me

If I just give my quill everything I am

maybe it can have all the living

and loving and bottled-up loneliness, so

I don’t have any more reasons to

shudder in front of disappointing blank

pieces of paper when the quill’s not enough

My quill tells you all the things I can’t,

shows me who I miss and who I can live without

(which are often the same people, go figure).