Words flow through my muddy veins
waiting to be let out.
Drifting among the blood cells, red and white.
With the antibodies, fighting unseen enemies endlessly,
with the bits of myself, constructed from carbon,
that are known to be real.
Stanzas and verses bumble around, inside me
following the intricate road systems mapped out
by miles of arteries between muscles, bone, skin.
They feel the beat of my always running feet,
the hesitancy in my hands, careful and awkward,
the fragility of ten fingers, constantly dancing through days.
The words want to tell the stories of me.
These words, now a deep and violent
red, dyed permanently by my experience. A stain
no household bleach can fade.
They find their way to the meat of my brain,
zapping among synapses, filtered into thoughts,
into these abstract symbols we use.
These concepts, they beat my brain
holding hostage my fleshy
eight pound ball of mystery I carry in my skull.
When I’m feeling generous I let a few words
trickle out, into strokes of a pen, symbols on a screen,
refugees on the page. I silently ask them,
are you happy now?