my days have been numbered by
the piece of papers holding meaningless words
that i crumple up and toss in the trash,
by the books i’ve gotten my hands on,
by the many coffee cups i’ve held to my lips,
and i can finally dive into prufrock’s words,
feel them encapsulate me,
roll around in my brain and
make themselves at home.
i crave the timelessness that even dickinson
couldn’t have possibly tasted,
the ability to have people to feel something
and connect with my words,
the chance to not feel alone in this world.
my words enter the blank page
without any rhyme or reason
but they help me embody my feelings,
and i pour my heart into my work
with the hope that someone, somewhere is thinking,
i understand what she’s saying.
that’s truly what it’s all about.