If all my words were currency,
were magic and were spells,
I’d write the world into a place
where they could buy and sell.
I’d have castles built from poetry,
and mountains raised from song;
the rushing rain would fall in colors
and my favorite books last long.
I would buy the sea and stars
from all the sentences I’d bleed;
constellations, fireflies,
new notebooks I don’t need.
I’d write letters in the woods,
if they could make sunflowers grow,
and if maples sprung from sounds,
I’d sing aloud the songs I know.
If my pen were a plane ticket,
and its ink a travel agent,
I’d write the courses of the moon
and find myself within the pages.
And if my words had wings
that could sift through sands of time,
I would reach through dusty shores
and write you home in the first line.
If all my words were currency—
but, in fact, they are.
Dollar bills can give a paper cut,
and words can leave a scar.
You can coin them all with kindness,
and work grace into your mint,
or have them stamped with insincerity,
giving them a sullied tint.
A matter greater than our finance,
we must know this to our core.
Every word we say is currency,
so how will you spend yours?