electricity buzzing beneath my skin,

a surge in the back of my brain.

The taste of defiance and tenacity

metallic on my tongue.

The words don’t have to be perfect.

Why do I always get hung up on the perfection?

Perhaps the act of creation itself is beautiful -

messy, imperfect, non-linear

but beautiful all the same.

Our souls, our very deepest recesses

unknowable with singular definitions

tucked away on a dictionary page.

We are light.

We are dark.

We are all the infinite possibilities in between.

Stardust, molecules, infinite vessels

of all that was and ever will be.

So much possibility, so much hope, so much beauty

will never be contained in a single word or experience.

As I unclench my proverbial palm,

these imperfect words drift into the cosmos.

A piece of my soul satisfied

by the joy and wonder of creation itself.

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