Can you hear what I do not say?
The thoughts that remain in my head.
A blank page,
may wait an age
for my pen to rampage
across its pristine surface.
Spilling words, that tumble, one after another, jostling for space.
Ending the line in an untidy heap.
Surprising me by their fluency.
Then stuttering to a halt mid senta…,
as I realise
I have once more sanitised
all that I think and feel,
belittled and contained my thoughts and ideas,
rendered them impotent,
by my own grammatical inaccuracy.
iI's easier to go and play a game,
trying to find a voice to the words that beat within my head.
In a language not constrained
by the straitjacket of conventionality.
I despair at my own self-centredness.
I had no desire to write about me,
and my weakesses…
after all they are plain for all to see,
and a cause of much lack of harmony,
as I blunder through my day,
letting slip words I regret,
but cannot recall.
Lacking the wisdom to know when to speak
and when to keep my own counsel.
Maybe I should just admit defeat and draw.
Just one problem, I am worse at drawing than I am at writing...