a whimpet of werds from a wearisome writer


without words
i am not anyone but a mud puddle that you don’t want to step in:
i’d ruin your shoes

i know no other way
and i hope i am not vapid in saying that;
it’s only the truth

some people hope for money and possessions
some wish for love or power or strength or immortality or intelligence
or stupid things 
like a new car or a thousand dollar bracelet
i don’t know

i am a writer-
whether i possess a talent or a gifted imagination or a large vocabulary
or not
there is only one drive inside of me:
the truth of poetry:
a most sacred passion 
for the art of words 
and how they wrap around the heart
and get your shoes so dirty that
you may as well play in the mud 


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