Unoccupied.

"It's hard to speak my thoughts."

"But you're a writer", he said,
"how simple it must be to pen emotions."

Can't you see though? Even if I claim
to be a confessional poet,
there is still distance roaring between
my words.

As much as you like, you can't hear
ink; you have no idea if my ink
is guiltless or formulated from a
hundred homes where I waited years
for an identity.

But when I open my mouth, I can't
spit back the words, gurgle back the
professions. I can't wish back
the truth.

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Written 9/20/14 @ 10:47 PM