The voices write the words that spread across the page.
They say what they want, when they want.
I mostly just edit, and not too well.
At least we’re finally getting to know one another,
the voices and I,
after all these decades.
Sometimes, the voices chatter like monkeys.
Every so often, they whisper intimate lies.
In more lucid moments,
they explain mystery through symbol.
I never know what to expect.
The written words urge me to reconsider
what I thought the voices told me.
They encourage me to question everything.
Each line leaves me wondering
whether or not my input even matters,
or who will hold sway over the impressions
left for posterity.