Slaves

Scratch.

Cancel.

Change.

For every word there is,
A better one is hidden.

A feeling as potent as pure;
To attempt a coup
Is inviting farce.

The nib scratches out
A word,
Then cancels the
Entire line,
Giving up.

Tears well up,
Then run dry.
What once was loved,
Now lies unused.

My pen scrambles away
Again;
Escaping my frustration are the
Little words that don’t
Really say what I mean.

But that’s all I have.

Some say more than I
Ever meant;
Some falter half-way
Through.

Some scream instead of
Whimpering;
Some identify no
Urgency.

I’ve forgotten which words are
Caresses
And which draws
blood.

But today I sit back
And see the
Beauty in my
Mistakes.

For today,
I will ignore my
Misgivings,
I will force myself to
Swear fealty to my
Words
Instead of enslaving
Them to mine.

I will swallow my
Misplaced pride
And accept the intent
Of my words.

For if I don’t
Cherish this troubled
Love with them,
Then why would
Words
Burst forth hence?

It is not simply
I who writes.

It is them choosing
To be written.

So, blame me not
For the Banality,
Or the usage of a
Verb
That does too much;

Or, of a
Noun
Which says not much.

They’re born
And
they die;
I’m a slave to them
And shall learn
Only
What they teach.

Siddiqui F.
(15.08.2018)

NB: Last 8 paras (‘For today…’) continued on the next day at Petit. The former was written at home.

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