lately i’ve been thinking a lot about writing.

not doing much of it, of course.

thinking about all the people, from the beginning of our time

simple animals who invented language 

because the pressure of having too many thoughts

with no way to bring them beyond your teeth

was too devastating, too lonely.

i think about those people sitting in a huge room,

saying nothing, writing, in any language at any age

holding their bleeding red soul in their hands 

and choosing to give it to every stranger who happens by.

i am the wallpaper peeling off the wall of the room,

desperately trying to get closer to something like a human experience

but not quite sure if i deserve to. what can i add

other than some foul smelling glue and faded paisley patterning.

too afraid to write anything new, or too close to truth

for fear that they might see that out of so many words 

to describe every feeling or look or breath or vista

i have none of them. i am wrapped up in a heavy pile rug

insulated and rotting in some supply closet, alone. silence on silence.