Writers are quite dangerous.
She came to the bar, to watch,
And listen, to hear stories.
Carefully, I tread. For fear,
That my own diction, would become
Trapped in her world of fiction.
Though, of course we swapped pieces.
And still, only selected to paint,
A vision of my own creation.
Small freedoms, but they matter most.
As I'm a prisoner to demon's I host.
Be wary poets, of power most foul.
Ensnaring half spectres of being,
In a prose, a thought or a feeling.
Reality is as real as you write it.
Spoken: What is heard
The adornment, gospel truths the pious believers of your personal faith. The Heresy, the voice of those you’ve ******
Spoken: That which can not be taken back
Your frivolous certainties had no hold but now frame our reality because they are always in the peripheral only seeing what it allows you
Spoken: half truths
The victimized, the wronged, the offended just to validate unscrupulous act to those who have wronged you.
Spoken: White lies
The coddling which breeds an ignorance for the knowledge of decorum, decorations and vails to hid behind
Spoken: That which the universe asserts
That which the universe listens to, vibrations that it assimilates making it part of the whole without losing its agenda
Spoken words hold power far beyond communication
Envision the rest
Depressed or distressed
Worried less, I invest
May regress or finesse
Life's congruent mess
Mold your self, immaculate
Clear hate and evoke fate
Inspire, create and congratulate
Persevere when near,
Whilst you conquer fear
Mature and grow wise
In front of your eyes
passion for diction
I chanced upon a note one day,
I looked askance, then looked again,
It said, "Do you want to join us today?"
The Mafia application form reads this way.....
"Whattsa you name?"
"Spella dat again!"
"You gotta gun, you say?"
"You gotta shades today?"
"Whattsa car you drive this day?"
"Issa big one, black or grey?"
"You shoota someone, one day?"
"Free cement shoes, our way!"
You joinna da Mafia today!"
People look for the fountain of youth
But I am a fountain of words
I wield them like weapons
They slip from my grip
I spend them like bills
They steep me in wealth
I tuck them in my pockets
They spill from my lips
I give them as gifts
They stick in my teeth
I kiss them on cheeks
They slide down my throat
I stack them on shelves
They pile at my feet
I pack them in boxes
They stain my sheets
I burn them to ashes
I hope you get it because
This **** is endless and
I forgot where I was going with this
I like words.
Each is often imperfect alone
But the skill lies
In stringing them together
In just the right order
In just the right way to convey
The galaxy in my mind.
I like words.
They stick smooth to my brain
Like the thinnest decoupage
Every inch neatly covered
Every crevice every crack
Every layer after
Every sheer layer.
My dictation program has an accent
It types out the most unreadable things,
When I say something like " my bunion stings",
It types back to me about onion rings.
There have been embarrassing moments
When I was chatting along quite normally.
I found myself feeling very thankful
That I hadn't been chatting formally.
The conversation needn't be special,
Nor use any esoteric phrases.
But some of the crap this program prints
Astounds, stultifies and amazes.
It can't be brushed off as an accent thing;
My speech is quite non-dialectic.
Sometimes it seems that Apple, Inc
Wants to render me apoplectic.
But, the way it is I have no human beings
That I can focus my frustration on
When something that company sells at a store
Turns me into an unwitting pawn.
As it is it's an iPhone and I can't pity it
When I hit "send" too fast and seem an idiot.
It’s possible I am asking far too much
Of the current reach of technology.
Even though our phones seem part of us
They aren’t really part of our anatomy.