poetic

There is something poetic about going to a poetry night with a failing voice.   Sore and raw.  Where it is a struggle to speak.  Then leaving so tired yet so inspired that it hurts to swallow your words.  I can speak with my hands so this shouldn’t be a problem.  I can express my inner most thoughts, secrets and confessions and lay them out in space.  Leave them there as an offering of myself.  But when no one understands, they hang, like a morning fog between us that just won’t clear.

So I have sat in silence for five days.  My brain all a haze.  These thoughts wafting through my head like smoke, slipping through my fingers.  These thoughts that won’t behave, won’t sit quietly on a page.  These thoughts that are not ready to be heard. 

I need to be patient with these thoughts.