Journals, books,
Filled with thoughts of those
More eloquent than you
Those wondering how the world came to be
Asking God for
And your own thoughts
Slowly twisting into yarns in your mind
Formless, empty
And who would have thought you could have so much to write you didn't have anything at all?
Because some things could only be felt
By a longing for more
A deep set sadness
And ache left by battle scars of battles no one remembered
Much less cared about
But you, you were the canvas onto which the stories were carved
In criss-crossing lines on the skin of your ancestors
Each mark a story of love, but also pain
And how could you ever find the words to embody that?
And maybe, you thought, maybe a different language would help
Maybe the smooth lilting or staccato tones
Of something not English
Something more right
Some language in which each sound was a story
But do those even exist?
So instead you settle for empty pages in empty books
Filled only with thoughts that have no form
Wordless, languageless,
But full of the things that matter.
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