I like words
Not uttered
Not hurled out
Not when
They are in the frame
Of their spoken sounds.

But when
They are scribbled
In a hurry
On clandestine boards
With protean chalk.
When they are scratched
Into benches, doors and barks.

When they are sprayed
On walls,
They attract my eyes
And hold my attention
Like a child is drawn
To a magic box.
I like when they are stolen
From thoughts
And written in the wrong places.

I like words even
They are born of mistakes.
For they stare at us
Like lost puppies.
You can’t be angry
Not with them
Only with your thoughts
At your own obscenities.

I like words.
They are like coded nostalgia.
Like preserved anger
Or caged humour.
Like smiles with vowels
Like fumbled, polysyllabic sorries.
Like wounds made angry…

On sheets of paper
They are like
A clear night made starry.


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