The words beg, haunt incessantly push to be
heard -Dripping forth like a venom- too vile-
about to kill it's own master
The scream, they push-
I offered refusal and they gathered together a great
army to slay me,
ME! Their owner, their creator- their God!
Soulless bastards each and every one of them
No peace- not ever
Sometimes they will wake me in a cold tremor
Pushing to remember (fu**ing) with me
They then concede into dark corners waiting...
Oh! how those bastard words love to trick me!
In conversation they allude me- just barely out of reach
daring me- daring- as I spatter on like a fool!
Then finally when sleep decides to come-
(oh sweet sleep)-
They crowd, screaming, jumping all over my brain!
Daring me- but the body says no.
They love to scream,
those little elusive bastard words
For days and weeks I can search
behind every rock
or blade of grass
They are as free as any bird- at times
they take to flights a fancy-
Other times they are as the wily fox- just never...
Those bastard words never come when I call to them-
begging, crying, pleading with them- driving me to the
ragged edges of sanity-
but those words, always around the next corner-
or down the road
And when- finally I give up-
(I swear I heard them smirk) they
breech the threshold - offering themselves
Those little bastard words.
Copyright © Amy Green | Year Posted 2014
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