there are words inside me
unborn, but kicking.
they long to be free
but when i attempt to
release them onto
tender flimsy paper
they are stillborn on
my tongue.

delicate lines swirling,
forming tantalising shadows
behind the fog
they hide in,
coalescing into
not yet words,
but the feeling of wanting them
to spill out
is already alive and clawing,
as if any moment
something must come
bursting out of me.

why hasn't it happened yet?