Ange'lique Williams


My Hand

When my hand picks up the pen
Lyrical words and prose begin
It sings of things past and things to come
It starts with a preposition, noun or even a verb
Then come the rhythm together with hand’s words
Words like notes from Coltrane’s horn
One after another, syllables flow until a song is born
I can hear the sound of its melody in my dreams
At my awakening my hand is geeked.

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