We use words each and every day and there is nothing but the words inside of us.
Some of us try to use words to paint a picture.
Some of us.
Not all of us.
I string words into sentences into worlds.
I have millions of them.
I keep them in my junk drawer,
with all of the thread
and spare buttons
and scraps of cloth
and pennies that rattle like raindrops
and a steel spring that I found carelessly thrown from someones loose pocket
and curled up between the cracks of the mossy bricks by the old auto-garage.
I have big blossoming words
and small swirling words
some are sticky and sound like you’re regurgitating a cupcake
some are made of iron and wood
that stack on top of each other
bricks and blocks and bricks and blocks and bricks and blocks.
So if you ask me
“What do you write?”
I will tell you that generally,
I write words.