So this post is a day late, which has become a bad habit despite changing the scheduled day that I post for Live From The Lexicon. Maybe the following poem will shed some light on the sometimes tortured relationship that takes place between writer and word.
When there came the words to me
I wrote them down to set them free.
They despaired they could not stay
Clung to shadows, hidden away.
I assured them they’d return
And met again reluctant spurn.
I called upon the coax of muse
Whose beckoning they did refuse.
I left them with a paper host
Which they feared, as if a ghost.
I wished them well, if not goodbye
For in my mind they multiply,
Until they overpopulate.
I seek for them a kinder fate
For voice unbidden of a word
Will not abide to be unheard.