Aren't you my own voice
that I have suppressed
for decades like that of
a mentally retarded close relative,
hidden in sanctum sanctorum?
Why do you fill up in red in
those miniscule comfort zones,
pauses between thoughts ?
Why does plain water dripping from you
into the crisp pages of my creativity
attain acerbic acidity, burning holes
instead of sealing them?
I could chatter with you for a millenium
and still feel as restless as a mere
teenager on his first date.
(c) Max Babi Nov. 2006