Saturday, November 28, 2009


It's dark outside
and in -
I'm out of words.
The most ironic, bizarre, unexpected thing
that could possibly happen to
Words, the factor that has
(until this moment)
seemed the sum total of value in my life,
have in fact expired.
I love them still of course.
Words like bother, annunciate, superlative, clash.
I love the sound they make
in my head
on the page
and when I speak them aloud.
Words that settle inside me like a sigh
like the soft sensation of relief
that comes with crisp bed sheets.
They make the muscles in my chest relax
when I hear them
speak them
mouth them
imagine them.
But I am out of words.
I'm out of narratives.
I am no longer so intrigued by the pattern of my own thoughts
that I long to write them all down
before they can disappear behind me.
And I'm not sure how to tell people.
Should I announce it at a public event? On a website?
Or perhaps keep to myself for as long as possible
that this hobby I have talked endlessly about for the last decade
has worn itself out.
I have no more words to say
narratives to create
people to listen.

1 comment:

  1. I only just read your poem. Is this still true? I am so out of touch with you and your life.