Words

Thin sheets of paper,

just

wood fibers

pasted together.

Black lines,

fine as baby’s hair

curious shapes

symbols

marks.

The marks

mean something,

a word,

an idea.

Captured

in trees,

my ideas

go on

longer than me.

Stories,

but told

wordlessly,

without speaking.

Held imprisoned

on the leaves

made from

long dead trees.

Aching to be released,

let fly

above the inked

papers

and sing aloud

to the sun

the stories they were

made to tell.

Tied down

on the white sheets

so I can read them

and let them

fly in my mind.

I don’t remember what prompted this poem. I think I had a headache/migraine and was, as I often do when there is an angry troll pounding on the inside of my skull, pondering impossiblities. Words are seriously weird things. Like, I’m sitting here typing the thoughts in my head, and you’re sitting there reading and (hopefully, although this is Annie we’re talking about) understanding them. It’s just… weird. Really, really weird.