GOOD WITH WORDS...

I am good with words. The words of war, maybe not the words of love. I am good with words.

“Hey, that is such a cool shirt,” she says. “Umm… uh… thank you. Appreciate tha…” I mumble. Oh, what a fumble. I am good with shirts.

And I am good with words, the words of power over the words of love.

Truth is, I am afraid. I am strong and loud; instead of the person, I would rather address the crowd. I am good with herds.

When I speak, I am heard, so I try to be polite, hoping I hide my plight— swapping “oh, okay”s for “SHUT THE FUCK UP”s, and “hey, how are you”s when I should be confessing my love. I am good with words.

To ones who know me it should come as no surprise: astute look, intimidating eyes, and my messy hair. I’m self-aware. It’s beyond repair.

So I adorn my thorns, I jest and goof, with the words unsaid piling the roof. It collapses.

For what its worth, I am great with words not said by me. I hear and listen and I know the feel, I know the response before it’s made, all the same. Lo and behold, what a stupid game.

I have seen the greats, too many and some. Am not one, my only greatness is to overcome. I know to lead (there’s no what and why), caged bird, afraid of the open skies. But I am good with birds, I think.

Oh, and how I find myself here again, talking of crowds after crying my pain. What a shame. Shirts, birds, herds, words: that’s all so lame.

I am good with words? Maybe I am good without them.