Scribbles On Wall

Words have failed me.  They trip me up, twist and knot my tongue.  They’re complicated and tricky and altogether stubborn about leaving the mind.  I have a feeling, a sense, a melody faintly drifting through my head—soft as silk but tears like a spider’s web, and words are too clumsy a thing to bear it.

Yet words are all I have.

I have them, right?

Words have overwhelmed me.  They swarm my head like a nest of smoked hornets, searching for an exit too small to see with darting eyes.  There is buzzing, buzzing, and I think it started in my chest before rising to the space behind my eyes.  Every letter is scattered, each word rent asunder by the next trying to take its place.  Something is about to explode.  I’m just not sure how.  I’m not sure what.

I can’t reach the very words demanding to be taken.

Words have stolen me away.  They pounce on each thought and spin it into poetry, into metaphors, into essays never to be graded.  I am carried away, catching a spoken phrase and rearranging the words until I translate them into their best order.  I am running towards them.  My feet aren’t touching the ground.  Words alight upon everything I see, coloring the world into something vivid that only my own mind can hold.

Sorry, I didn’t hear the question beyond your usage of the word gossamer; I’m already far away on fairy wings in a chiffon sky.

Words have evaded me.  Hidden, secret, whispering only in the in-between of wakefulness and sleep.  They’re playing with me, winking through cracked doors, a game of hide-and-seek I hadn’t agreed to.  Faint and wistful, slipping away like shadows from light.  I’m intrigued.  I’m curious.  I’m reaching for the closest ones, bright as gemstones in the setting sun, radiant and strange and intangible.

I am searching them out.

I am soothing them as they swarm my mind, untying the knots they give my tongue, gently pulling them into reality with a little piece of magic still intact.  They are not easy to write.  They do not like to be caught and made tangible.

But they are worth the struggle.

For what else could bind poetry to a page?