Prisoner of Word


They say I have a way

with words.

But I think words have a way

with me.

They have THEIR way with me,


being as

I'm not

the brains,

the creator,

but merely the agent

of their will

to be used.



waiting to be assembled

into order,

into monster muse.

A cluster of secrets

waiting to come un-



from their coccoons.


Demanding rants

that cry for understanding

of their own


to know they're not just

ramblings insistent on



as long as they flow.


But they've got the wrong guy:

I can't make out

a cliche from a metaphor.

Truth is, I'm tired

but they hang on so dearly

to me,

to the uninspired,

looking for liberation

from the random.


And it's probably not worth

the trouble:

Producing tasteless flavors

in favor of

silent contemplation.


A nation of syllables - once at peace -

looking for a Word War.


Somebody kill this beast.



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