When I want to write And the words are churlish and Sluggishly slow in coming - And even when they come They linger at the door-frame And rub their soft cheeks Against the painted grain -
I read in a special voice. Sometimes it's the voice Of my English teacher from Junior class. We didn't get along, But not a word passed her Lips that wasn't as gilded and Mellifluous as edible gold-leaf On a chocolate-chili sundae.
Or the voice belongs to Rives, who plucks meaning Out of words like candy Out of an Easter egg. He savors every syllable Like it's an annual treat And lines them up neatly In his throat like some kind Of spoken-word songbird,
But the things I write are Least likely to be read aloud By Rives and my English teacher. (And reading in their voices Seems too proud.) So I pen The last of the stragglers down And clear the alien voices out Of my own (often sore) throat.
I enjoy my words, wallow in Phrases, and praise lines of Alliteration about as often as A soldier runs past shelter Helter-skelter and takes his Chances with unfriendly crosshairs. My voice quavers, quivers, shakes, And shivers when I read my work.
I find every letter and line And nuance absurd, but I keep myself in check. Editing is A controlled demolition of Punctuation and capitalization; Sometimes the "submit" Button is hard to hit after Splaying one more page of Myself into crisp computer print.
But I breathe and repeat The words that are lodged Under my ribcage like a Stray bullet: "You are not Superlative; you are not Fantastic; you will not be Famous; you will not be Any better for a long time And even then you may be Terrible, unbearable, and Infinitesimal,