untitled

i read and reread

my own words

but they all feel so foreign

in my head in my heart

this is an art i never

truly mastered, nor do i think i will ever

with my head full of doubt

of myself, of what i feel

i get lost in these letters,

i want to write like him

and i want to recite like him

will they ever know of my desires?

will i ever tell them how they’ve

moved mountains, no

how they’ve moved my entire world.

in such a simplistic chaos

they matter

my heart is filling with trust

after so long of it being a causation of its ruins

does that signify patience?

of myself, i do not know.

nor do i think i will ever know.