I am a story waiting to be translated and read.
Words don’t come easy – I stole these ones from a song, I think.
They stumble on the way out and hang limply on a line, secured by the old-fashioned pins, begging to be used.
I check the dictionary and find the correct meaning, but by the time I do that, the moment is lost, the pin has not moved, the word is still hanging.
Languages converge in my brain, confused, mixed up, lost.
I swim through ideas, run through subjects, trudge through images.
I am a poem, waiting to be recited.
I am cipher, waiting to be decoded.
I am a writer, I think.