to whisper words in the manner of comedy.

do you hold anything within you
for words?
I have spent an eternity
at the solace
of  it's door steps
I have bee born
I have slitherd through
the spectacles of every day's air
in the might tin shadow
of words.
till one moment that was small
and blades onto the caves
of my eyelids
that are doorways
and windows
to the house
of my soul
that posses a body and a mind
drenched in the subtel, stale stench
of  ordinariness.
a soul that is the torch of sunsets
and the dense softness of flower gardens
and the sheer end of books
a soul that is lost in pursuit
of genuineness
and solitude.
and the genuineness of solitude
and the solitude os genuineness.
my mother dosenot see this
as a beautiful thing at all
will I marry?
will I bring forth children?
your words are not your children
mother what are children but extensions of ones self
what are children but hazardous material one puts upon earth
only to self impose hurt.
little soft object that can be swept by the wind
caressed by  moth
or god forbid
read
then reread.
mother I was born a mother
I was born a writer
I was born
whispering solacely and colossally
into the pestilence of the universe
words that hardly dare displace
and I know this
and I am not afraid.
my only fear:
is that they
wouldn't be whispered at all.