These foul slithering figures
Don’t dance across the page
As they spill from my pen
Dripping, smudging, bleeding
They sit and idly stare.

Language is deceiving,
For words cannot weep
Or scream and cry
They do not laugh
Or dream or sigh

They twist themselves in knots
And feign sincerity,
Tangled on my tongue
A thick web of
Self-proclaimed eloquence

With each sullen rhyme and
Insipid adjective
I am convinced
Of the lies in these disguises;
Words are futile devices.