By Jazelle Handoush
Tongues are tied of tales to tell
And we stain ourselves with stories.
The ones with written remembrances
Who paint pictures of past
of present,
of tomorrows yet breathed.
Our fingertips are black and blue
And words scatter on skin
Of things unsaid, yet to be told,
of adventure, of love, of sin and glory.
We bleed black, yet savior yet drop
Bottled up for later use.
For what we tell is a part of us
For what we tell shall be
part of you.
Writers rewrite realities,
Then edit and revise the world.
We provide roundtrip vacations to preferred
And open blind eyes to light by words.
We are the cursed of the Ink-Stained Souls
For we see all, try to tell, but go ignored.
We bleed black and barter realms unknown
For an escape from the chaos of our "home."
But here's the secret so whispered well,
A secret generations of the cursed endear:
The novel of fabrications you leave unread
Will be bona fide to life by the end of the year.
Copyright 2011 | Jazelle Handoush
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