Leave poetry to the poets and I will take the leftovers: words that are too dull and plain and I will build a log cabin out of my thoughts. I am admitting that I have no way with words. At times. I choke on them as if allergic. Other times, words flow out of me; there is no dam to my noise. I am in love with words and sounds, but I am not loved in return. Unrequited love. Maybe my place belongs with tables and charts and graphs and adding one chemical to another to make a third. I should leave poetry to the poets, and writing to the writers. But then, what would be left for me to build my thought-house?
No comments:
Post a Comment