I feel as though I'm lying on a bed of words and they're bleeding in to me. They whirl around beneath my skin, an unrelenting current, more real than the blood in my veins. They rub against the inside of my skin, they seep deep into my muscles, my tissue, my bones, and they itch against the tips of my fingers, willing me to let them out. A vortex in my mind urges action, to let the words escape in perfect, precise order, to capture them forever upon a page.
I cannot say that I am made of flesh and blood; I'm created of blotted ink and paper scrunched into balls. I am unheard poetry. I am untold stories. I am unsent letters. I am wasted potential.
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