Listen To The Hand

Words have eaten into my brain, as for me, I’ll never be the same, but you’ll

never hear me complain. They’ve

touched my lobes and set my lines free and brought out a poet hiding inside of me. A vex of my hoarding cerebral cortex, left me numb, less, an emotional mess. Hoarded processes, time, and infinite rhyme, a proverbial gear throw in a lost screw or two, nothing else to do.

My broca is broke. So, I talk with my hand, not always easy to understand. A new Theta Sunday Writing Ritual has possessed my mind along with my index finger and thumb. I’m one weird individual. My thoughts are free, now they won’t let me be.

Written by Gina Adams

Sunday, May 5th, 2024