These Words

I am tired of trying
To see what they
Make.

How they know
My interests before I would,
How they would show
The shadows I’d try to hide away.
How they formulate;
Where they come from,
Which story, which song,
Which movie, which page,
Which vision;
Did they show.
How they’d effect
The words I’d choose to say.
Do the sounds I hear
Effect them,
Could it be mathematically explained,
Could a computer algorithm solve
If it were to be programmed the right way.

But I couldn’t do
Those things at all.

What about every given thought
In a day,
Or the one before,
Or the one before that,
Or the one before that one,
Etc.

And then
Trying to see what her words
Said about her,
How much of it was real
How much of it was made
Up in the attics of my brain.

I didn’t mean to fall in love,
With another ghost

But I did


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