Inside me
I can never just dream
It’s always reciting
A narrative
Of everything I’ve seen
Places I’ve been,
Strangers and friends…
Unending dialogue,
Some people dead
It doesn’t matter
To the Narrator—
He thinks they still live
And they talk to me
Happily
The way they once did
I wrote my first book
Searching for my voice
And could barely
Hear myself
Above the noise
So don’t ask me
How to write
Or be unique
I’m still searching
For myself
In all that ink
But one thing
I can say
About struggling to be—
That voice inside my head?
I discovered
Was me.