Words

 

 I am lost in words words words 
as Hamlet spoke
snared in lust and in love and a dreadful longing 
I wish to be buried and consumed 
burned as with Dylan’s rage
I am overfed to the point of bursting one day
at other times they hold back and make me forage
from husks already stripped
searching desperately for something to reuse
to reignite
as a kingfisher catching fire
My head is full of them 
friend and enemy both
in lifelong struggle to master, to bend them to my will
to my call
I am, in the end, the one that runs toward the sound
of their voice 

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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