These words may be nonsense as I push myself to write again.
My brain can't contain all of the words it wants to say.
But I am quiet.
Instead they come out as silent movies played inside my mind.
Behind closed eyes.
Or they ride out on my tears, creating puddles of me
everywhere.
They scream at times
Loudly because now I know I'm allowed to.
Maybe I speak too frequently.
When I thought I should be silent,
my fingers tapped keys often
and rapidly.
There was no stillness.
Now
no movement of my fingers.
The stories are still there
but I am too busy stirring
while leaving the pot
empty.
About the Creator
Sandra Matos
I write so that people will remember me. I make art for the same reason. I had a mother that I never knew. Who she was, how she smelled, or what she valued. I don't want anyone to wonder who I was.
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Comments (4)
Beautiful! You certainly found your words! 'Instead they come out as silent movies played inside my mind. Behind closed eyes. Or they ride out on my tears, creating puddles of me everywhere."
"ride out on my tears, creating puddles of me" ❤
Another beautiful poem! Well done!
Nice work.