Words..

I am not a writer. I am not a poet. I cannot conduct words to impress others and leave them breathless. I do not use words. They use me. They mutilate me and rip me to shreds, dissembling my parts. Words will follow me wherever I go, but I will never truly be more than an acquaintance with them. They will line the marble above my grave and rest on the lips of those who want to remember me. They lie as parcels in my mouth, knocking around between my teeth, slipping out clumsily to fall to the ground and never into ears that will listen and hear me.
Tonight there are words sitting as wet cement somewhere between my stomach and large intestine, slowly multiplying and I am sure that by the time a boy calls me tonight, they will have reached my mouth and hardened right up. This boy will throw his words at me, letting them fall heavily at my feet, clunkclunking like a car engines and plastic spoons. He will talk at me, but never with me. We will not share our words between us carefully and quietly, instead I will be bashed into my bedroom wall with words that don't mean anything to me.
The girl who called herself my best friend for years now likes to string words around her fingers and place them along the ridges of my back, pressing them into me and forcing me to listen. The words only dig deep holes, so I pick up words I find along the streets and at people's feet, shoving them into the corners of my spine.
I am prepared for the words that will assault me tonight. I know how they will peel back my edges. I can already feel them swelling so great in my room that they will soon break the windowpanes and crush me to death. I will hear words that sound something like, "This just isn't working out," maybe followed by the nice little phrase, "I just don't have enough time,". or maybe he will fish something out about how "You're too uptight for a guy like me," which can also be heard as, "You're not like me as much as I though,". The words will crash against my slender frame and follow me everywhere as a reminder that I can never conquer them.

Letters of Freedom.

A young man,
Sat alone in a box,
Made of his own doubts and fears.

Each day he threw,
A paper plane outside,
Watching as the wind took it home.

The planes were,
Really letters he wrote,
To any voice that would listen.

One day a reply was sent,
In the same way his letters took flight,
And the message was by a young lass name Rem.

More letters took flight,
As back and forth the two spoke,
With wings formed from oak's bark.

Soon another girl,
Also added her letters,
To the flights sea of flow.

Her name was Ren,
And her friend Mary joined,
Each day the three sent the young man news.

How the city was,
How the sky was such a bright blue,
And how the water that rested by the city port looked so new.

One day as he threw the letter,
His step was one to far and with a slip,
The young man collided with the edge of his seal.

The wall did not kill,
The wall did not hurt,
The wall did not maim.

Instead the man's hands,
Met the greener grass's warmth,
And standing before him were three girls he did not know.

Each held a letter in his hands,
It was the first he had sent by paper wings,
All three spoke at once, "Free me, Know me, Forgive me."

In reply they flipped the paper over,
And began to speak in chilling tone,
"You are Free, You are Forgiven, and you must say Hello."

With a smile on his face,
He stood up from the grass,
And opened lips dry and chapped.

"Hello."