So very big. Me.
All the miniscule epiphanies that make up
myself.
I'm full, no
filled. Filled up
and overflowing.
Are you sure I can stretch this far?
up.
pulled
being
I'm
Words. Music. Colors. Nature.
They pull me up
Upward. Heavenward.
The stretching starts to hurt
I can't do this!
You're giving me too many words.
I'll break
I'm filled and filled and filled
Until I can fill the pages.
Pages and pages
all full of myself.
Not of myself,
of what filled
Me.
Endless circles of filling and full.
Life, death, and new life again
until I finally break
and the words soak out
onto the pavement and
into the dirt.
They stay on the pages
waiting for another empty container to fill.
