Missed Unions

My hands can’t write.

Just as the fish can’t walk, or the moon can’t shine the days sky.

Even as I see words scroll through my head as instances tattoo memories across my mind.

Could go crazy not doing what makes me sane

I can’t take verbalizing my words into normalcy, taking away my artistic safe haven.

Stiff as a board, as I try to write on my board

Pen out of ink, mind out of sync

I think, how useful it would be to be able to pen my words with my eyes

So the world could hear me with optic contact and silent conversation

Spitting up my soul as if I were stuffed,

And it hurt.

But I guess the process of discovering oneself

is to experience different levels of pain.

Allowing yourself to feel things without the ability to hide behind

What secretly feels great.

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