Verbatim

[Querida]

left unsaid
letters strung together
break, swim, falter and re-emerge...
the palimsest of guilt.
is it sin?
is it stupidity?
is it vain to judge words,
that are not written with care and flourish,
indecipherable scribbles vye for the attention of one.
even ink cares not to flow steadily,
their meanings too trivial to spell out,
a line , a word , an idea long left unsaid in the way you pronounce it
so stubborn they remain struggling towards
what was first sparked.
and now lay hidden and intentionally lost
its themes too proverbial to leave unmarked.
influences interfere breathing ignorance as their will
yet writer too is guilty of burying alive
that which is safe from ridicule
better left unsaid or so it is convinced.
but how does one know unless one utters...splutters
scratches out weakly the mundane
to trick the naive
yet still cause magician to wonder
is this real?
is this mine?
who speaks for me?
who keeps me from glory with the little that i know?
the little i ache to share and hunger to cherish as one's own

all that it contains is life
how true, how not, how so?
and anything to say that is not what i meant at all.