I hear the whispers.
Whispers of the poets
whose names I'll never remember
because all I see are the whispers
of their pens scratching the paper.
Sweetly caressing the lines
of a page so fragile
that only in numbers
it can find strength

Crashing whispers
upon your face leaving
a hand print of a slap
you had long forgotten
only to be remembered by
the warmth of a throbbing cheek.

Surfacing whispers
from the depths
of your dreams. Dreams
you lost in consciousness
of forest with leaves
that glow and where all
around the world the
falling tree is cheered on endlessly.

Unspeakable whispers
that tell you to keep writing
through the walls
in which your mind is ******
into an impasse that's impossible
yet your pen still finds its page.

Piercing whispers
that go into the very depths
of your lungs
suffocating you from
voicing but even that
won't stop your pen
because you use your hands
to speak in signs
of concepts where getting
to the point faster is a game.

Tearing, shredding whispers that
draw their swords and
scream at you to write,
to make your pen
flow like the waters
of the machines that make
the single torn page you write on
faint and stay flat.