Wild Creatures
Location
Shouldn't it be simple?
I write the word, the word is read.
I write the sentence, the eyes take it in.
i. I give
and
ii. they receive
i. I write
and
ii. they consume
But ...
There are choices which spin around my head
There is apprehension
There are white-rigid fingers
There is fear of being heard
There is fear of being misheard
Do I expose to the light of day
These creatures that I've wrought?
Do I smother them struggling in my arms?
Do I let them go? Do I hang on?
Long ago I learned that demons cannot survive
When drenched in the ink of my pen.
But to invite them to a glass house, for all to see--!
I could scorch,
I could smear.
The words might not hold 'neath the weight of dark eyes,
They might not stand weighed 'gainst the lash of sharp tongue.
At the bottom of the line,
it's empty underneath my bed; the monster lives inside my head
So, an open letter to Not Good Enough:
You cannot close my mouth.
There's an itching that growls within my bones, whenever I feel world-weary
(And believe me, it's against any author's good judgment)
But I can't write and keep silent,
I can't write and tether my words
Wild creatures, wild creatures,
Held fast within my ribs.
As I reach out in frantic doubt,
As I release each word I pen,
I pass my heart,
I reveal my soul
Whether to unfeeling hands or a gentle caress--
That's not my concern:
Only to write, and to impart.
Just maybe, my mouth is a dreamcatcher. Who knows.
Just maybe... demons meant to be exorcised out loud.
In the very end, there are two sorts of stories.
i. those I need to tell,
and
ii. those that need to be told.
My words are not my own.
I am the vassal; I am the messenger,
where the message is alive
and demands
To Be Heard