ABC

10/2

My head is filled

With the strokes of pencils,

With inky rivers

And scrolls for miles.

It is full of scribbled memories

Of writers finger

And nights spent

Slave to a slack-jawed pen.

There, birds to not screech,

But words do,

And how they cry out

To be listened to.

If you rest an ear 

Upon my pillow

You will hear the echos

Of the words that have managed to escape.

For you cannot keep

An animal caged,

Any more or any less than you

Can keep a written world locked away.