“Original“
.
I sip poetry with my tea,
it seeps out like sun through a window,
it leaks through my fingertips.
I breathe in each page,
I live in these words.
.
Can I claim my voice as my own
when nothing comes of nothing?
There is no sound in a vacuum.
.
Can my whisper be heard
above the roaring wind,
or am I part of the chorus?
