The words I read
Those planted seeds
Growing deep within
I have taken my measure
And found myself wanting
For some it pours forth
And fluidly responds to
Their clever incantations
I sputter and spit and
Make a pleasant mess
Some days I feel so brave
and bold
Some days my demons take
hold
Other days I just feel damned
old
Yet I never feel the sweet
satisfaction
Of knowing I’ve got my
shit together
You clever wizards
Culling and carving
Delicately painting
I left the lid loose on my
bucket
And all my paint has dried
up
Maybe I should just say ‘Fuck
it’
But that is something I
cannot do
And I know I must remain
true
For each word is important
Even if not dressed so
fine
Or does not quite rhyme
So separate the wheat from
the chaff
And if nothing else have a
good laugh
I hope that you’ll read
And plant these seeds
To grow deep within
I have so often found myself at the cross roads of "I can't complete" and "I shall be heard". The bottom line is that writing aids ME. I don't do it so much to please others, as to firm up my own position when all the pieces seem to want to float from view. There will always be those who do things "better" and with less effort than we do. There will always be those that do "worse" and have to try harder. It is what it is. But what we write still needs saying.
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