I need to write a poem – I want to write it
quick, ‘cause if I don’t get the right words out soon, I’m afraid of feeling
sick.
Verses coursing through my body, arranging
which route to take, surging along my arteries, trying to escape.
Bashing up my brain cells, mithering my
messy mind - tickling my stomach lining - dashing down my spine.
Trying to find an opening, a natural way to
flow, my conjunctions are forming untidy lines but still it’s all too slow.
Alas, I’ve mislaid all the alliteration I
imagined tipping off my tongue - I’ve failed to corral any apostrophes and the
prologue’s not yet begun.
If only I could locate a preposition, to
see just where I am or think of an interjection that didn’t give a damn!
Clumsy commas dash off with semi-colons,
not sure what mark to make; whilst an ill at ease idiom, puts on its brave
face.
Clouds of clichés gather, hovering
ominously overhead, lazy similes bumping into muddled metaphors, that should
have stayed in bed.
What if these thoughts do make it into the
open and are transcribed onto the page, will their sudden exposure seem weak or
overplayed?
An errant ego rushing off to find flattery,
seldom looks back to ponder on its faults, not for it perpetual circles of
uncertainty, as in a beginner’s waltz.
We should be careful what we wish for, be
wary of what we aspire to write, as often words betray their creator, leaving
them ashamedly contrite.
After all it might just be hyperbole,
overstated and often queer – for example who ever thought of a word that sounds
like itself and called it an onomatopoeia?
Copyright Lucinda Merriman ©
Copyright Lucinda Merriman ©
