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What Am I?

I’m no writer.

I just know how to string words along to make them sound like a sentence worth reading.
I write my feelings down my arms and let them melt off and drip on the nearest person who is willing to listen,
But no one is willing to wear my stains.

Sometimes I like to think I’m good enough to have other people’s ears latched onto my every word.
I like to think that sometimes, when my voice knocks and thumps on eardrums they’d open their doors just enough to cling onto my every word.

But what happens when I run out of words?

I’m no writer.

I just perfectly understand how you feel.
I’m still sorting myself out.
I’m under construction.
I have too many secrets.
I just need some time to think.

Every night I come to the same place and wait until the sky catches up with my mood.
If we’re all mostly water then how do you look so different?

I’m not sure what to say, I’m tongue tied, I’m only half-handsome, I’m too honest.

My life, a handful of colors I keep in my pockets.

This is my escape, my open road, my way to give away my memories to the passing clouds and put my hope in the color of the sky because I haven’t been that impressed lately.

I’m a cactus waiting for a few drops of rain.

I’m no writer.

I just know exactly what to say. I know exactly what to do.
This isn’t new to me.
It’s not pretty or endearing.
And it’s hard not having all the answers.

I’m no writer.

But I like to think that one day I will be.



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