thirty-five

i have found that i
cannot
write
anymore.

there was a time when i found myself in these words on paper
in these words on words that formed something beautiful
and there was a time when i was satisfied in sounds of softness voices
telling me what i have said
sing
sing it back to me
nice and slow
and i will hear my thoughts as they have never been said
hear the things that i couldn’t keep inside
bursting out of me like rain from darkened storm clouds
and when the first droplet falls
it follows
just follows

i have silenced myself with others
other loves that i called
expression
loves that have filled me externally
and somehow cannot convey everything that i’ve wanted to say
because i cannot find the words for them
i wish that they didn’t need words
words that cut apart and desecrate the shrine of illiteracy
words that cut apart pictures
i wanted my pictures to be enough
and somehow i find myself
wanting to find them again
to pull inside and suck out the thoughts that have needed names


(from spring '05)