The words that pool around my mouth are sedimentary
left over from geniune artists
a palatte unrinsed.
I feel so forced
to make it.
A starving artists' dining requests
put it on the tab
write it down
Let me make it. It's mine.
Times New Roman has a new Helen
and she has no time for rocking horses or wars.
Every time I write
I begin to feel incomplete
and it's so frustrating, all these words crowding the inside of my mouth
waiting for the go-ahead.
When their speaker cannot see beyond her own childish feet.