Nothing I Say
Unless they meet me at least halfway,
My words have no apparent or inherent meaning;
Indeed, they're needless, useless, innocuous, irrelevant,
Nothing more than a marriage of convenience
Between my loose tongue and my airy cognitions —
A monumental discord,
From which arise the harpies of my imagination's ashes.
In the past, I believed that my colossal lexicon
Could perform wonders, just by being at my ideas' beck,
Responsive to my mind and pen-wielding fingertips,
Able to translate my thoughts, fancies, notions
Onto the notebook's waiting pages.
Now, finally, I realize this disillusioning truth:
Words have a life of their own; nothing I say matters.
10/16/08 - (3)
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