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MatthewSparksPoems
Its on the tip of my tongue Its in the blush of my face Is it psychosis Or intuitive grace? A yearning, a hunger Pulls from inside emotional pre-verbal insight Floods my mind A tight-rope I walk Titering on the edge of articulation A whisper half-formed Just beyond translation A thought dressed in silence A feeling in flight Like dawn pressing softly Against the last night You’ve felt this before— That almost-there spark, A match never striking Yet still leaveing a mark Not madness, not answers, Not something to chase, Just breath finding rhythm In a nameless space If words start to falter Or meaning feels young, Don’t fear the quiet— It lives on our tongue And maybe you’ll notice As doubt disappears… You’re not watching me balance— You’ve been standing right here.
0
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 6:24 AM UTC
The Pull
Its on the tip of my tongue Its in the blush of my face Is it psychosis Or intuitive grace? A yearning, a hunger Pulls from inside emotional pre-verbal insight Floods my mind A tight-rope I walk Titering on the edge of articulation A whisper half-formed Just beyond translation A thought dressed in silence A feeling in flight Like dawn pressing softly Against the last night You’ve felt this before— That almost-there spark, A match never striking Yet still leaveing a mark Not madness, not answers, Not something to chase, Just breath finding rhythm In a nameless space If words start to falter Or meaning feels young, Don’t fear the quiet— It lives on our tongue And maybe you’ll notice As doubt disappears… You’re not watching me balance— You’ve been standing right here.
MatthewSparks
Written by
MatthewSparks
31
Feb 15
Feb 15, 2026 at 6:24 AM UTC
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