Date: 21st of July, 2025
Location: Madeira, Portugal
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Poem: "Words"
You had a funny way of saying things,
placing commas, where I didn’t think to pause,
saying ‘period’ instead of ‘full stop.’
Except, the words you used, made me stop,
giving me reasons to think about the world
in ways I didn’t care to before.My words were crunchy, and scratchy,
like a vinyl turned dusty,
left out for too long.
Yet yours were smooth,
just as the honey was in your summer cabin.
I could never talk with syrupy words like you,
they’d leave my mouth like boulders hitting an xylophone,
bumping four notes at once,
when I only needed one tap to make a point.
I started to celebrate my scratches, and my umms, and my ahhs.
I became smarter when I used my words,
my own words,
mixing them like a wooden spoon in life’s batter.
Stirring them slowly, making sure
they eventually find their place
but of course,
with no rush.
Words don’t need to be beaten into existence
just stirred, and melted,
shaped, and moulded,
but not taken away because they clumped together on a humid day.
I wish for words like yours
but I have my own,
and they’re sweet on Tuesday’s
sickly on Saturday’s
and just fine on Monday’s.
I am a nest of words, with hummingbirds visiting,
to take twigs, and feathers,
in the shapes of ideas and letters,
to places of the world I will never see.
My words must look like me,
or you’ll never know,
why I chose red ink or blue,
in the portuguese summer,
at 4.57pm by the sea.