I write things
Sweet things and soft things
With pleasant bings and pretty rings.
To the eyes the things I write
Look shining and sparkling
When I turn them black to white.

I smother and hover over which words I bother
Until my words can stand
Alone after getting birthed from my quivering hand.
They live on parchment
But not the hard shit
The soft kinds that soft eyes
Like to glance at
On a personal private word dance mat.

My words stretch for precious rest
Atop your mind
In your very own word mine
Where our words mix and match
Until your words become mine
And mine become wicked and wilted
As our thoughts wildly combine.

When my words leave
My head becomes heavy
With emptiness and an empty idea
Until new words come when I’m not at all ready.
They fill me up until I start to fly
Who knew the courage that words could carry?
So the next time you feel unable to stay dry
Get a pen and make your very own word ferry.

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