When I let words enter my bloodstream
I try to sink in and float with them,
Inside myself I hide from the outside
And drown in my breath and the occupancy of
Rhythm beating against the walls of my
Ribcage,
My skull,
My fingertips.
This Soundwave Motel is never vacant,
Though home to the foreign and obscure.

The pressure of this life to find the difference between
Who you are and
Who you are meant to be
Makes nothing seem so worth the effort,
As finding wings out of darkness
Or making peace with the reflection you
Don’t like to see.

A miner in the coal,
You can’t let the soil
Devour you,
Nor the shovel move the rock
That will kill you.
Chipping away at the details to find something so hidden,
Is it so worth the glory of what they say?
Is this gold you are seeking,
Really anything but another rock
Like the ones on the floor you have just carved away?