Having words to define them is pointless

having words to define them, is pointless

these empty organs pumping, relentless.
filling only to push through the garbage
of poisoned hearts
and empty wombs
and the heavy metallic rust
encrusting hollow bones
is the only thing keeping me up at night,
keeping me upright
and

alright.

the trite word
responding to the empty concern
of social niceties
so answer me these,

please...

how many times they've been spat
or swallowed,
these words, bitter?
Better than sweet to my ears
as resentment of my body,
my thoughts,
my memory
my resignation to the fact
that I may never be loved like that

that I may never have loved like that

why do they fill these empty organs pumping,
relentless?...
If only to be scrutinized
worse, rationalized,
as the guise of my redeemer
reveals no word about my identity to me

reveals no word about my identity for me

So I guess what these pages are for...
Blowing up metaphors like glass of liquid honey
spinning round or lopsided yarns
in order to feel more important?

in order to be more important?

Having words, to define them, is pointless

They only make sense when strung together.
a solitary word is naught but a puff of air,
so insignificant on its own but we forget that
it has been places
and seen things
has been the first
and the last of life
holds memory
holds strife
has been inside you,

has been inside me.

And to be jealous of a word
is to be human.
to not be
objectified
oversimplified
bated
or frustrated because of
how you act
or see the world
in your own reflective youth

in your own relative truth.

To be misunderstood even unto yourself
you, who are supposed to know you best
you who are supposed to love you the best
or at all.
because it doesn't matter how many times
I've swallowed or spat

Having no words, to define them are pointless,
having known them at all.