What Brave Souls

suddenly twenty miles-per-hour

feels like Nascar speed

to me,

i'm racin the clock.

racing cars,

racing myself.

it's nice forgetting how to go fast.

it's nice to feel afraid of normal.

I fit words like a puzzle in my mind.

the Pen I hold is my tongue

the Page is my lips

and my Words are my soul.

from poems i dream

to the ink on my tongue

i feel like flying

or maybe gliding.

gliding is smooth,

comfortable.

but then

i'm not comfortable

i bear my soul to a Page and a Pen

and hope my sword-like words don't meet my own chest

i'm constantly tongue-tied

not because I don't have Words

rather i have too many

what beautiful souls sip coffee next to me

what Stories we have

and oh,

how they need to be told!

and as the fire becomes sparkling embers

another's flame reaches for my whithering wic and whispers,

"You're special."

what sweet souls find themselves again

what brave souls dare to think bigger than how our culture tries to define us.