Incoherent Thoughts Organized Into Neat Paragraphs

The Poem

My fingers itch for words.

I reach for them but the right ones always seem to be just out of reach.

I stretch my hands out toward letters and syllables, I open my arms to them in hopes that the right ones will stumble into my heart like soulmates finally colliding after a far too long wait.

I collect words and place them on my shelf. Dusting my lexicon, running my fingers over the spine of every definition, seeing which will call out to me.

My only hope is that I can string my sentences together in such a way that will speak to the soul of those who hear it.

I want to write a poem.

The poem.

The poem that sings your smile awake and pulls your soul to the surface.

I want to write the poem that sparks something in someone, or in me.

I want to write something that speaks to someone the way I have been spoken to.

Because I know what it feels like to hear something so real and so true that you want to stitch it into your skin.

I breathe words in because they are the sweetest scent.

There is a reason we put words to paper.

The pages may not be able to create oxygen anymore but they can still put breath in the lungs.

I have found that words put life back into tired bodies.

A good poem makes your ribs lean forward,
Your eyerows raise themselves up.

Words make worn out faces alight  and excite something deep within us all that just wants to connect, to know we aren't alone.

Words have always made me felt less alone.

So maybe I will never write the poem.

Maybe none of my stories will ever be sensational.

But they are mine.

And if something I say could possibly spark something in you,

If the light hit this poem in just the right way if even for a moment,

If any of my recycled words make you feel less alone,

That's magic.

Thank you for listening.