I spit out words one after the other,
scribble on my hand because I have no paper.
Am I not what I am made of? I am words.
My intestines are long scrunched up sentences,
my eyes are shiny round periods,
my mouth is a powerful message I use to speak truths and tales,
my hair is a wild mass of essays my teachers gave me B’s on,
my torso is the body of a term paper I struggled with to perfect,
my arms are strong examples I use to illustrate stories,
my legs are tanned and lean from the hours I spend running from writer’s block,
my feet are tired but useful commas waiting to be put to use,
my lungs are quotes from long-dead writers that breathe inspiration into my life,
my brain is a vast source of every word and every phrase that have made up my life,
my soul is a speech people have yet to appreciate,
my heart is a beating poem full of wishes and hopes,
so full of love it’s bursting.
I am words.
I am complicated genes strung together to form something unique.
I am complicated letters strung together to form something beautiful.
I am a language you could never understand.