This poem is a response to a prompt this week from dVerse Poets Pub, which asked that we write of some of the reasons we decided to be poets. Some of the bullying I experienced as an adolescent served as fuel for the fire. It at least in part explains why I am as “wordy” as I am – besides the simple fact that I love words.
All the words I did not say,
the words I knew that dried up
inside my mouth, swallowed as dust,
with no friendly drop to help me after.
The image of a discontent square peg,
aching for the round hole of escape
inside the enlarging angular box of
There was no excuse for what I was,
there was nothing I could say.
I stored my words, spoke softly
learned chameleon ways,
the art of paper-making, how ink
is distilled from the sera of old wounds;
how to stitch together what was once
rent apart into something of lasting value.
I would learn to live on the meat of
thought, slake my dust-dried throat
with the cooling draught of words.
I wish all of you, my Gentle Readers, the blessings of enough. . .