Rantings and Ravings

I just want it out of me. I just want these words to stop pounding at the back of my eyes and distracting me and making me fall in love with every little picture and line and quip and piece of poetic license that I run across that tugs at my heart. I love them like I should love those close to me. They are my amplification of the ways that I don’t understand how to feel. They are more a part of me than any one living or dead. They speak and call to me in old lover pillow talk magic. Those fucking words. I have them — or rather, they have me. I am their window to the outside world. They wish to be born and when the birth canal is soft and warm they pull themselves up by their bootstraps and let go and come to my fingertips and bang bang bang bang I can’t get them out fast enough. I can’t slake my thirst. I can’t defeat these metronome hunger pains that tick-tock that begs me to let them live; to give them breath; to get them out of that conduit of fleshy gray that keeps them imprisoned like fantastic leather-bound tome refugees.