Poem: Words

It isn’t truly fun, you know.
Writing.
Not when it’s this;
Not when the words start trickling through your veins like opium,
When you start floating through the world instead of moving with it,
Not when Reality becomes “reality”,
Soft and hazy and so much more flexible than it usually is.
But the words are here,
Running in my veins, and
Pounding at my temples, and
Gathering in my fingertips and clogging my throat and
Filling up the corners of my lungs.
It isn’t truly fun, you know;
Writing.
Feeling time slip away;
Where the only marker of Alive is the way the words throb like a pulse,
Where the hours and seconds and minutes are snatched—
Eaten, nibbled, devoured
By the words.
The words that don’t exist.
It isn’t fun, you know.
Not existing until the words do.
~

I think this goes without saying, but as we live in a world of rampant asshattery, please allow me to state for the record: this is my intellectual property. As such, please do not copy, circulate, edit, alter, take credit for, or otherwise appropriate this material without my express permission. Thank you.

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