Young Writers Society

everything i say has been said before

all of my words are stolen.
i am a copycat concatenating commas and colons.
nothing i do is original, least of all these lines.
i need so many synonyms to say the same thing.
press pause…

now (word)play.
the wind shivers palms until they sound like rushing streams.
my palms sweep away the syntax error in my sense of self.

{twist your tongue until you're tongue-tied.}

am i only an amalgamation of grammar
and parts of particles, stolen gram by gram
from those who think more than i?

hush.

what if self is only a lapse in speech?
i whisper to a spoonful of sleet:
sometimes i think i lisp in my sleep.

{redo replay rework remake yourself
over and over and under and under until
you finally find what remains resides in
a restricted rezoned redefined reason.}

u & i r 1

we listen to the palm of our hand.
the lines are like shivering streams of wind.

look.

we are the beauty of weeds poking out from
between a tired wall and a jaded ground.
green against sun-faded red and travel-worn gray.