There will never be
Enough time for me
To say everything I
Must say.
My head is just a
Bowl of word stew,
And it is bottomless.
I scoop and I scoop,
But there is no ladle
Big enough to empty me.
I am an animal,
Foot caught in a trap,
Bleeding. Makes me sick.
I have to scribble on
Fallen leaves, using sticks
And twigs dipped in my
Own clotting, wild blood.
When the hunter comes
To reap his rewards
(and tonight's dinner), I
Will have written
A compelling argument on my
Leaves. Perhaps the man will
Have the heart to let me go.
He'll think "Lord, I have to find
Myself some game that isn't
So wordy".
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