words; crooked little fools –

i carry a box, full of contradictions, ideas, expectations, and ponderings
when i turn them over, spilling them out across the paper
they read like unwanted twists in unread
books of fiction – the words dance across the page, wandering,
meandering, crooked little fools, foiled by
the fact that they don’t even have a chance
to make something of their own without
the thoughts and brains of humans licking emotions
across the paper, they can never manifest outside our bodies on their own
and when they are alone, isolated into their smallest vulnerable pieces
they are nothing more than letters, dots and lines folded
by ink into creases and sharp turns,
some of them comfort, others tend to burn
but all of them spell something from the inner workings of our brain
i’ve learned  – even if someone copies, rewrites them,
they are never ever written the same
merely phrases putting our brains on leashes;
taking us out for a walk to find common ground that we can
mull over, and the greatest strolls are the ones
where the words don’t make a sound

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