Words?

I hoard my words like a dragon, refuse to let them go for fear of forgetting.

Each word is precious, each thought my own.

I shake at the thought of losing even one.

Such obsessive practises clog the flow of story,

Each line tripping over the last to land in a jumbled mess,

Of half finished ideas and bland lines hung with pretty words.

My attempts at imagery cave under their own weight.

Sagging and weak, even I cannot see them for what they wish to be.

I’m sure of what they once were - grand within my palace. But unseen.

How cruel! I could not just leave them collecting dust.

But so much was lost in the process of pen to paper,

And it leaves me unsure of what my words first meant, if I ever understood them.

They are me, just as much as I them,

But I fear they’re becoming another twisted intangibility,

Lost in unknowing, avoided for ease.

I send prayers for the lines that must be cut.

Know they are me in my mind, and will bubble back up to the surface

When I find space enough on the page.