I am filled to the brim with droplets of gold,
All puddled up inside my head.
A shimmery substance that I keep to myself,
Filled with thoughts that are better left unsaid.
Sometimes, some drops slip over the top,
And they land on my arms or my hands.
But the drops at the top are visible to all,
And I don't really mind where they land.
But the drops way down deep I barely let though,
And when I do, I don't normally share.
They seep through my fingertips onto my page,
And to perceive it, is indeed rare.
My tears are the color of my thoughts in my head,
They gleam on my cheeks as they dry.
They only spill out when I'm completely full.
They don't always shine gold when I cry.
I usually share my drops with my friends,
I pour it out, and see their eyes are lit
But there are some things that are harder to pour
So I let it pool around my legs where I sit
It runs over the rim and I sit in the stuff.
When I touch it it stains my hands gold,
So I gather it up and I take out my pen,
And I write when I start to feel cold.
Paper upon paper, page upon page,
Hang on the wall of the room.
I lock the door tight, for these all mine,
And in the center, I stand, and I loom.
I stare at my work.
I ponder, and think.
Every time I can't speak,
I write it down in gold ink.