Pardon my stutter.
Though feather light
It tickles my words so they shudder and jump.
Like dominos, my words hit into one another continuing to fall, making a jumbled mess of my thoughts once so strategically lined in order of logic.
You may not hear it, but it’s there.
Pardon my stutter.
In light of my verbal hesitance, I write.
I write because in it, I’m given the most precious gift that eludes me in speech.
When writing I’m given time.
Time to finally communicate what I think in the eloquence it deserves,
with a depth that gives power back into the thought.
But I also know that you must hear me,
Feel my pitch, bear my tone,
Some things, for all my precious words, cannot be limited by the alphabet.
No collection of letters could create the creation of a cogitate.
Our souls are to deep to be limited. And our sinful minds have yet to catch up to them enough to translate.
So therefore,
Pardon my stutter.
By Nicole Dominguez


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