I hate words.
They won't serve me.
They won't be wielded by my abrasive hand.
Like bad children they scatter when their
father calls them and rebel the worse at
attempts to tame them.
They mock me, serve not my meaning to others.
They know me and laugh that no one else can.
Disguised as portals to my soul they attract,
then turn to armored walls and attack
the guests I wanted.
Deceptive as sour milk in baby bottles.
You'll never know the poison until your child screams--
the one inside you wanting good milk.
And part of me dies to see it so.
I lash out at the words:
You putrid things!
I asked for good, for sweet, for life.
You gave them knives.
And left the dying cries
of children in my ears.
My wanted meaning disappears
Just like my unseen, unheard tears
at hidden words you changed to mean
your putrid things!
And in response, the words laugh loud
to keep the truth from listening crowds
who wait for words
to tell my heart.
As if the words
obey my art--
the art I am.
But I'm like you and hear them only.
The words I write will disobey me
once on the page--
Like children sent from God to earth
to show the world His love and worth,
not wars to wage . . .
But that is all they do from birth.
Yet, does the Father stop creating?
Cease His constant renovating
of our souls
When we evade the knowledge given
and shun the caring He has bidden
us the share?
But I'm no Father,
nor have I children
but bastard words I've found and driven
Like mines ill-placed at times of war
my words deface what I'd adored
Now nothing's more inviting
than to hate those words.