I meant to say something, to say anything really
but between having nothing to say and not knowing how to say it
my words got lost
No, my words got choked
my words got beaten and thrown against
every wall I could find
They were all I had
and so they were all I had to lose
and loose
They came out wrong, all blind and deformed
hideous baby words we keep locked in the attic
and we called the lot of them idiots
And when their prince comes we let down words
stumbling and gagging down the stairs
hopping two or three at a time just to meet someone new
An attic is a terrible place, you see
one somehow so inhospitable that words rush out of it
filling the exchange with their barking laughs
Idiot words telling horrible tales
horrible things about me and my home
which might I add is exquisite
That's why I have to keep on running
town to town, in search of any ear untainted
anyone who doesn't know already who I am
Soon this poem too will be another awful breed of mongrel
yipping about something I'd swear I've never felt
but what does it matter, who will you trust
The Idiot or that which Made Him?
that which Made Him or The Idiot?
Who choked who?
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