Collecting Scraps

A moment of honesty.

I believe, which is odd even to myself,

That part of our souls reside

In our handwriting.

I have no idea what it means, really.

Only that I have seen 

So many scrawling letters,

Some nearly illegible,

Some swirling or blocky,

And I have never seen 

A writing I didn’t like.

So I collect them.

Stacks and clippings from 

College notes and inside jokes,

Pen and pencil and creases

Down the middle, four ways.

There is something

Sincere about it, 

That makes me think

We must put a bit of ourselves in-

To our written words,

All the unique curves and edges,

All the complexities of 

Personalized creation.

And most of all I love

The idea that I can hold them, 

These scraps of soul.

Keep them dry, tucked 

Away, read them over and over,

So they live on,

Long after the hands

Who have written them have forgotten,

Thought those words lost

To the void of the world,

Insignificant,

Gone.