To write that which is not said —
a somewhat terrifying experience.

But isn’t that what poetry is,
at least in this form?

A collection of words thought,
but never given voice.

Maybe it’s an overstatement,
an exaggeration or romanticization
of the written word,
but, what I write,
stems from this place of echoing silence.

I think and think and think
until my head feels so full
that words escape, ooze, pour
from mind to hand and hand to paper,
like a gash that bleeds without ceasing
or a hummingbird beating their wings
to hover in place.

Given breath,
the words sit in existence apart from me,
like a reflection of my soul
for which I share with others.