Wild Creatures

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Shouldn't it be simple?

I write the word, the word is read.

I write the sentence, the eyes take it in.

 

 

i. I give

      and

          ii. they receive

 

 

i. I write

      and

          ii. they consume

 

 

But ...

There are choices which spin around my head

There is apprehension

There are white-rigid fingers

There is fear of being heard

There is fear of being misheard

 

Do I expose to the light of day

These creatures that I've wrought?

Do I smother them struggling in my arms?

Do I let them go? Do I hang on?

 

Long ago I learned that demons cannot survive

When drenched in the ink of my pen.

But to invite them to a glass house, for all to see--!

I could scorch,

I could smear.

The words might not hold 'neath the weight of dark eyes,

They might not stand weighed 'gainst the lash of sharp tongue.

At the bottom of the line,

it's empty underneath my bed; the monster lives inside my head

 

So, an open letter to Not Good Enough:

You cannot close my mouth.

 

There's an itching that growls within my bones, whenever I feel world-weary

(And believe me, it's against any author's good judgment)

But I can't write and keep silent,

I can't write and tether my words

Wild creatures, wild creatures,

Held fast within my ribs.

 

As I reach out in frantic doubt,

As I release each word I pen,

I pass my heart,

I reveal my soul

Whether to unfeeling hands or a gentle caress--

That's not my concern:

Only to write, and to impart.

 

Just maybe, my mouth is a dreamcatcher. Who knows.

Just maybe... demons meant to be exorcised out loud.

 

 

In the very end, there are two sorts of stories.

 

 

     i. those I need to tell,

          and

               ii. those that need to be told.

 

 

My words are not my own.

I am the vassal; I am the messenger,

where the message is alive

     and demands

          To Be Heard

 

Comments

pixxxie

I completely fell in love with this. YOU deserve this scholarship.

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