These words were written by my hand,
but they are not of me.
They belong to the dinosaurs and the oceans,
to the cataracts and the carrots.
Martin Luther King,
Amy Winehouse,
Hitler,
Donald Trump,
Buddha,
and Nina Simone wrote them.
They come from the dull concrete
and spew forth from the guns of soldiers.
They have spent time in the desert,
bathing in the humps of camels,
and have flown across the ocean
clinging to swallow breasts.
They danced on lion whiskers
and hid in the eyes of the ram.
They are the shine of the padlock
and the winding cable pinned against the wall.
They are the butter knife and the butcher’s knife.
They are in the splatter of raindrops
and the silence of 4 am.
They are the abandoned child,
and the woman,
who’s deafening screams will never be heard.
They are the smile,
which paints itself on many a canvas
with a single stroke.
These words come from the fury of the Gods
and the pain of the downtrodden.
When the candle flame grays,
these words flicker bright.
They are the bags under your eyes,
the space between the pine needles,
and the gloves on your hands.
These words — you see,
they are everything,
everything,
but me.