The Unruly

I know where I want to go. At least I think I do.

These conversations with the page. But it’s out of my control.

You see, these words are not my own, and they tend to be unruly. Pulled and twisted as they are from the silence, where they want to be. left alone, in the dark. I think.

They like it where the potential is. Out here, I don’t think they like the abuse.

It’s not their fault, of course. They’ve been weighted in other peoples mouths. Someone else’s lip curling phoneme memories. Sneering and sliding the significance of histories.

So, they’ve learned to play tricks. Some bulging heavy and bursting out bloated, spilling upon on the page. Others gracefully elusive, as if lifting with dust motes before imperceptibly landing with precision where they want to be.

Dictionaries help. So does spelling. Yet don’t get bogged down by the rules. They won’t. You’re in their territory now.

There’s no travel-guide or how-to-book. Just the yarn and the weaving, and the sticks.

Here, use these.

They are useful

3 thoughts on “The Unruly

  1. I loved reading your poem, “Unruly.”This poem about the writing process is chalk full of imagery… Personifying words and the whole process- wonderful! “There’s no travel guide or how-to-book. Just the yawn, and the weaving and the sticks.” Beautiful lines and great read!

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