my mind fills with stories
my eyes close and see words
language was always about translation
from thoughts to forms others understood

but here in this moment
when opportunity meets momentum
only morning pages
will ever
get done

~~~

but is that
so bad
a thing?

~~~

i know i could write prose in poetry
i know i could tell a story esoterically
but my words still only seem fit
to express the feelings
in my own life

how could i tell another’s?