pixie in a giant world

I walk
around with astonished eyes, wide and foolish.
A pixie in a world of giants.
The people, the places I go, even the language is foreign.
I keep a handful of
words in my pocket and recycle them over and over.

Words I may have taken off the lips of strangers,
lapped off pages of books,

copied and pasted from a mimes forehead 
But I’ll write them down anyway.
In the hope that maybe when I reread them in a few years
I’ll remember how it felt to write them.

Yet they never breathe; the words.
They remain confined
to Times New Roman, to the 8.5x11 page, lifeless and one dimensional.
I feel too hard, I see too much;
I can’t compress the moments, crush them up into a fine powder
and funnel them into words,
into sentences that justify the time I took to feel them.

My fingers drum on the keyboard,
the right words evade me.
Words don’t have little hearts on their sleeves
or nerves to transmit the feeling.
Italics can’t whisper, even CAPS don’t holler from rooftops.
Words never reel or implode from the inside out.
Words don’t tremble
or beat so fast it’s as if their heart 

is set to leap from their chest.