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My tongue trips over words with an awkward uncertainty and my deciphering of context is more than a shade awry. Yet the ebb and flow of my life’s own observations boil and roil and toil within me, yearning to be known; like a rush hour traffic jam on a Monday morning, my thoughts often race to a halt before speeding on. Words that best express me wax and wane and stop and go; lost to the traffic of my mind, my musings become congested. In this strange habit I have of thinking silently aloud, I seem to have rambled my thoughts into a corner and, having tripped over an awkward pause in conversation, I ponder navigating a new course of words through the jam. But the words that I search for are always miles ahead or behind and I come to realize once again - I’ve never been much of a poet. |