'You steal words,' she said.
Yes, I do
I pick them up from the streets
Littered among conversations,
From dirty bar tables,
From lonely trains crowded with people
Words, thick and thin,
Dropping with sarcasm and malice,
Words steeped in the essence
Of poetry and wine,
That stink of yellow teeth and cigarette smoke.
Some are tainted with blood, and love.
Dangerous, safe, clean, filthy,
They are many things
But words they all are.
I pick them up and bring them home
With me they stay.
Some only for hours hang about,
Before slipping out of my pocket,
Into the dark corners of my mind
Where I can't chase them.
The ones that stay
I clean them, and string them
Together in stanzas and couplets
Paint them with thoughts and dreams,
And sell them
To the highest bidder.
I am not just a word thief.
I am a criminal of a higher degree.