Falling from my lips,
blood from a punch in the face.
Demented half truths,
squirming in panic on the page.
Grasping attempt to hold on
to the fraying edge of reality.
Do you know what it means to struggle
like an abandoned child half in love
and hating humanity?
Almost found new hope,
don’’t let him go marching off.
Just show my needy insanity
dripping in blood
so hard to hide the stains of.
Quit being perfect
it isn’t becoming.
Words in twisted irony
trying to crawl away
before I make them do
what I have to say.
Back in 1999 I still had this idea that I had to always and only have the perfect words for every poem. Stifling. I still wish I always had the perfect words and only the perfect words but I worry a lot less about it now.
I have now been attacked and screamed at for using a word someone didn’t agree with. Words most certainly have power but only as much as we give them. I’ve heard that we are all speaking our own language, that no two people will ever have quite the same connotations for all words. It was the right word for me. I might even go so far as to say it was the word God gave me to use that day and for that post and in that context.
The funny thing about words is that, like people, when they aren’t forced to be perfect they are much more cooperative and a lot less likely to leave slimy messes. It works much better for me to sit back an let them come as they come and trust God to manage my pen.
And, well, it really isn’t my problem if anyone wants to throw a temper tantrum over one word not meeting their vision of how and what I should write. I tend to leave slimy messes when forced to reach for a non-existent perfection.