Can we escape?
Do we even want to?
I think a lot about writing.
How the words form on paper
the shape of my mouth, when
I say them out loud

There are sentences on the walls of my mind
as I walk and talk to others
They are in folders on my desk
spiral notebooks under my bed
scribbled on napkins
crumpled in the pockets of my jeans
I carry them

There were times, when
I was overwhelmed by words
I had to knock them out of my head, or
put them on another surface, like
an animal that you can leave outside

I had to close a door on the words, so
they would leave my house, and
land somewhere among the trees
Sometimes still together
sometimes in a jumble
shifting and breaking and tearing apart
only to start all over again

They watch me
sitting in my window
waiting for new words to come
joining the other words
I had sent out long ago
A graveyard in the forest, where
all of my old, dead and
unfinished words lie

But, I do love the words
I do want to get lost
to think about them
turn them over
change their structure
follow their meanings
create new ones
see them in a plot
on paper and find them
again and again

Maybe the barrier is the problem
A ‘much’ and a ‘too much.
A floating and a drowning
A debilitating choice
a complete abundance
Where do we draw the line?