The ache of his fingers traveled up his arms,
and joined the ache that pushed at the walls of his heart.
His type writer feeling stiff from over use.
Eyes on the page but unable to see.
Feeling the only thing to do at time like these is to write.
Knowing, the heart aches when it isn’t heard.
Without a voice,
with no where to go,
pain can do nothing but ferment.
Growing more volatile and poignant with every breath spent,
ignoring your truths.
Hearts need a place to lay, and if not on another,
they favor the page.
-I wrote this at a poetry slam as a part of the Cathedral Village Arts Festival in 15 minutes after being given a page from a novel called ‘Mother Earth Father Sky’. Everyone later read their poems for the crowd, it was exhilarating and so wonderful. The first line is pulled directly from the page.