There was a quiet time
tangled far too long ago,
where tendrils of memory
can barely brush:
when I wrote silent pictures on lines
printed across yellowed pages
and I heard my teacher say,
murmured from a book gravity favoured,
that a picture speaks a thousand words
or so I heard,
but it never really settled—
simply floated around;
but like the dust that the air holds,
sometimes the sunlight
magnifies the gold tenfold
and when every shining spec
of thought came out to listen,
their origins left not a glisten
but now I paint my poems
with loops and with bends;
I spread words and inks
on new paper under my fingers
that spoke its longing for a brush
to recite all its thoughts
in broad strokes of phtalocyanine blue.
it captivated my skin,
so I lent it my hands
I find it strange how
my hands seem to listen to
the paper more than my mind;
but my pen is my stethoscope,
and my poem is a picture
my painting is a story
of how my heart
learned to speak
a thousand words
YOU ARE READING
A Light In Your Stomach
Poetry☆ UPDATES WHENEVER I REMEMBER I PROMISE I HAVE A BUNCH OF DRAFTS READY IN HERE ☆ Some poetry I might not want to lose; some of these are already posted in Poetry Amino under the pen name 'Ducky'. *If anyone has tips on formatting poetry on wattpad w...
