
words
don't
come
like
a woman
comes
they don't grow,
surely,
quietly,
arching their
backs, their arms
stretching above
their heads, eyes,
wide open to the ceiling,
building,
blossoming,
into an overwhelming
backing down of
soft,
hard,
beautiful words—
faster words—
more complex
rhythmic lines of
orchestrated flutes and violins of
symphonic lingual rolling-off-your-
tongue-and-heart words
they don't grab your hair and
press your pen onto paper and
yes! write a stanza here, an ode!
there! a haiku! a sonnet oh god
write what you want! and
misspell! write sloppily! or
calligraphy! an epic of titanic explos—
—
—
—
no,
words are juvenile males—
they leap on your mind
they come,
they go
1 comment:
that was HOTT, ryan. one T cannot contain it.
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