Sometimes the words fit.
They fall from the sky
Or out of this bedraggled brain
And just like a jenga tower they all line up and are all solid.
But other times
Other times I want them.
I want the words so bad.
I can taste them in my mouth
Like the cinnamon and sweat of past summers
And I have to write.
The words have to flow out of me
Or all flow will stop.
I am just going to just pass right out on this spot
If I don’t get some words down.
And I wish they all sounded the way they do when they fall.
The way they do when I know this thing that I do.
When I know that writing is the one thing I will always hold onto.
But they don’t.
Sometimes the words come out awkward and quirky
Like the books of poems I wrote in my 13th year that I cringe at now.
Sometimes they come out that way
But that doesn’t mean I stop them.
I still let those words live on the paper because its one step closer.
One step closer
One step closer
To being who I’ve dreamt I’d be.
Not all of my poems are gold.
Not all of them dipped in the fountain that is abstract.
But I will never stop writing them.
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