The Words Don’t Work.
Words
are a waste of time -
they’ve certainly occupied
too much of mine.
Shouting like pushy folk in line
from A to Z, demanding attention
in fray with clatterered heels
and sullied cries,
bold suggestions -
like Jazz sax strayed
too far from melody.
But it’s not I don’t enjoy
their crowded company.
No, far from it, I do -
I truly do and always will.
Where would I be
without our dialogue?
And beauty, and wonder
and other joys?
It’s just … I begrudge
the mechanics of these things -
these *words*.
They just can’t resist
trying to sneak their influence
beyond what I really want to say.
Words come with baggage you see.
What I think, what I write,
and what I speak -
it all gets ransomed by
dragging needs to express
and be understood,
to offer degrees of meaning.
In reality though,
not, the real me.