Too many times I’m left wondering
Alone in the quiet of the dark.
My words when they speak
Are they often stuttered?
Or are they terribly thrown out into the air
Twisting and turning, making themselves known.
They take an awful turn as they sometimes do,
And I’ll never know if it was something I said?
Words to paper are different for me.
They trickle out in the tranquility of the night
Like a raindrop on a tin roof.
So soft and easy and truer than when spoken.
To paper they fall off of my fingers like the tide lightly rolls into the shore, but the lips are nary the same.
Paper will be my love story forever and again.