My words drip colors:
They do not breathe
Through consonants and vowels;
They do not seethe
With passion or sorrow;
They do not aim like arrows;
They do not trip on talons.
My words make chaos:
They overfill
My bones and marrow;
They slip and spill
Through cracks so narrow;
The raising of an eyebrow;
The mumble through a mouthful.
My words come back to me:
They find release in hands and fists,
(that hit and hit and hit)
They seek reprieve in tears and drinks,
(that drip and drip and drip)
They bloom like flowers
(not on my lips as I speak -
but upon elbows and knees)
My words drip colors, and so color me.