I posted this late last night, then deleted it this morning (10/20), thinking it was too negative. Gee, it’s a blog about writing, I thought. How can I post a poem about hating words? That’s not veryencouraging. But perhaps it was only those old inner critics rearing their ugly heads. Those guys never quit. Perhaps they’re best stomped on and I should let freedom ring. So here goes: (Thanks to Barbara and Kathy!)
I hate words
Pale puny things.
How inadequate.
How thin.
How weak an antidote.
I turn to them;
I rush and hide and hope,
but they are only black lines on white pages–symbols, not saviors,
measly metaphors standing in for the poison of my pain
as if they will cast me a line, a way out of here.
How often I run to them, seeking deliverance while I know none is to be had,
even here, in that place I know best
where urge meets page
and words unveil that particular something,
which is better than doing nothing at all.
