(listen)

I don't want to write of pen and paper, of point and purpose, of thorough thesis, and of words that turn like gears. idontwant to write of mechanics and mechanisms clicking and churning beneath the gilded surface. I don't want to write of something to prove. (I want to write of something to say… and to say it somehow.) I don't want to rewrite the regurgitated words of someone else, analyze the wheel into reinvention. (the wheel that was a cold metal mental prison of our own invention from the start.) I don't want to exhale recycled words. (Not when I have my own whose heartbeats teach my own their rhapsody, breath after sacred breath.) I don't want my words attached to the respirator of artificial life, artificial voice, lying blank-eyed in a sterile hospital bed, injected with artificial sugars that invade their empty veins. (I would rather see my words die than) See them live on with a pretentious comatose smile and a need to prove they are worthy of living.

(This is

This is

This is

This is

my voice

Can't you hear it

hear it

hear it

hear my heart beat

This is

This is

This is

my voice

How can you say

how can you claim it isn't there)

when you aren't listening