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  • Writer's pictureWellington Lambert

What is mine...

The words create the structure, and the structure is passed down.

Tag, you’re it.

I was swallowed by a plot that was fashioned to look like my story. Now I live in it, lost, feeling the burden of forcing it to breathe under the pressure of forgotten history. When I was listening, I didn’t realize I was being fed. The same words that nourished me, now poison what time I have left. They are holding on to me, looking for a new host.

I am a good listener, but a shitty talker.

When I watch you as I speak, I am in a million different places, taking in what is and what isn’t important. I practice being in the moment, but my moment always seems to exist in the future. I try to expose you to what I need to give you, but I am always one step ahead or one step behind. Over the hill, behind the chair, but never here. I will die with this beauty, and it will rot inside me.

I try to recreate the art of the story. A beginning, an end, an up a down, but I feel like have been given a body without a soul, it won’t transfer. Who am I playing this game for?

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