Sometimes
I look at these hands of mine
And out of the blue
I find those unexplainable
Ink marks
All over my palms
my forearms
And it makes me wonder
All about basic questions
Who
What
When
Where
And why
I keep recalling
My days and nights
But I wasn't writing anything
I just woke up
I search my bed for
Any pen lost in the sheets
But still there is
Nothing
And that intrigued me
So that twisted
Poetic brain of mine
Pushed me to believe
That we're nothing
But an incarnation
Of all our ancestors'
Screams of joy and lust
Cries and tears
And this inky rash
Is nothing
But those words
Those lost pleads
Of all living poets
Urging
Begging to come out
Out of our pale skins
To face
And only to face
The person standing
In the mirror