You are all the poems

I cannot write.

You are all the words

I dare not speak –

not because they would deceive

but because they would disappoint.

So these words

(knowing my perverse reliance on flippancy and sarcasm

as shield and sword to repel every honest sentiment)

prefer to be stillborn.

It is ironic really

because with everything else

my words run rampant.

There is no end to all the thoughtless things I say.

But with you –

words disdain my tongue

and silence shields me from repelling you.

James Reynolds

James Reynolds is a writer who lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.  Some of his work can also be found in upcoming editions of Scarlet Leaf Review and Lighten Up Online.

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