She had a thing for words
she always had this connection
with writing them down

if she could give up
one thing it would be her voice
For she found no necessity to voice
versus write

Her house was made up of pencils and brushes
her walls were decorated with words
in cursive and american
various sizes and different fonts
her hair was always bunned with
a number 2 pencil

Her shelves shelved books
notebooks, random papers, doodles
scribbles, half written stories,
heartbroken worries, pictures with worries
with love, new words, rare words,
pulchritudinous words, ugly words

if you pick a book from that shelf
and open it, those words jump out
in sequence, inserting melodies
in the silent air around you

You close that one
and open another, realizing
that each book harnesses certain feelings
with certain melodies associated with them
for example if you open her notebook
to the page titled “A jar with a broken heart”
you hear Lou Reed’s ROUGE!

If you open, the other university
looking like book, you see doodles
of an experience that dance with
Beethoven’s 9th symphony
ode to joy!

she thought words needed their justice
they needed to exist, on paper, on walls,
on her skin, in the light, in the dark

when you turn off the light in her house
your eyes will marvel at the glow in the dark ink
she used to narrate her fear of the dark, her fantasies
that danced with the night, her love stories, her
lust with the drunk experiences she lives,

when you enter her bedroom
you see that she has no ceiling
you see her walls colored with words, sentences
fragments, haiku’s, poems, rhymes, doodles
you can actually feel the words
some were written with love in her heart
others, were darkened and thickened with anger
guilt, regret

you can hear them too,
when night falls and you rest on her bed
in that ceiling-less room
you see the stars, staring back, lighting the room
with silver glistens,
you see as those words on the walls,
come out and embrace her with a
hug that they only understand
they only know their creator
they feel with her
they are her sanctuary
you lie there
on her bed
suddenly you feel a certain kind of warmth

you see as their words start
coming out of the walls
and engulfing you
with a comfort that is
only unique to

You ask her
“why don’t you voice them?”
she grabs that pencil holding
her hair up
takes out your arm
touches it
with the lead tip

You suddenly got electrocuted
with the power
that her words had
she smiled
you speechless
with an answer
and only

pencil in hair


One thought on “Wordly

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