"In Other Words"
by Mackenzie Shrieve
I’ve breathed in scents of trees and water and held on to them as if they are my own
I’ve anguished over other people’s words, manipulating and rearranging
As if to pretend that they belong to me
I have surreptitiously held on to ideas and melodies
As if I am solely responsible for their genesis
And I start to wonder whether or not the world we live in is just the recycling of thoughts
That don’t really belong to us at all
In other words, what am I doing here?
Imagine if the very language in which we communicate was stripped away from our consciousness
That feelings alone dictated human interaction and connectivity
That the knowing of me loving her or him or them or it was prevalent just by breathing
By being alive
We irresponsibly use the words we have been given
As I have irresponsibly relied on them in order for people to understand me
For me to understand me
Alternatively, what other choice do I have?