Silent Poet

a poem from my upcoming book; published books are at inkwhisper.gumroad.com

Silent Poet

My throat’s a vault, no sound breaks free.
Words writhe in my fingers,
all I’ve got to scrape my plea.
I try to etch your face,
but strokes snap,
eyes I’d shape slip from my hold.

My thoughts snag,
wedged where thumb scuffs ridge,
smeared on a palm that won’t bind.

This hand’s my page,
no trace it saves.

Each twitch a verse,
seen by few who read my wordless mind.

Folks stare at my fingers,
think I’m spinning jests,
when I’m just hacking out truth.
They jeer,
call my quiet frail,
not knowing I burned
to chase a word that’s lost to youth.

If you see my fist
tear the air in two,
that’s me,
scratching your name,
for the last time,
before the ground steals what I swore.