I drop the words down,
can you reach them?
they spill up and over these chapped lips,
and I, I cannot control the flow,
I beg you make sense of me,
read between these lines,
makes sense of my hands,
my gestures give hints to you,
read my sweaty palms,
look at this jumble of propositions,
and agitated adjectives,
they used to read pig intestines,
to predict the fates.
It's not a mistake I promise you,
look at me a mess in a dress,
moving to fast to order these words,
to line up and make a sense.