by Anna Heiar
You mouth speaker,
reciting to me
words that have been shoved
down your throat.
Do you think it’s true?
That writing your feelings
will get you nowhere?
You mouth speaker,
can’t you see the world
as I do?
The beginning of a novel
glancing at those passing by.
The spark of a thought staring
at blue buds decorating greenery.
The emotion that seeps from
my fingertips to my pencil as
I develop my characters.
Mouth speaker, you call
me strange and peculiar,
but those are also memorized
lines from old nursery rhymes.
Mouth speaker, what I am is a
writer.
My pages exhale with life,
their fumes provoking deep
human emotion.
My stories hold scraps of
my flesh, hidden behind
my characters lives.
I speak best with
a pen in hand.
And, mouth speaker,
that is who I truly am.