Word for word

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.

My liver says it’s leaving to find a more eloquent space, while my heart is busy emoting, at a fast and furious pace.

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 ©