These Words

So much work to do
When will it end?
But end it shall
Swiftly
And then suddenly
I’ll be grasping
At memories
I laid down
Saddened
Not realizing
After all this time
I must let go
In order to move on


And to this end
I’ve been foolish
Rushing along
Slinging words onto pages
Without taking a moment
To enjoy them
Expanding thoughts
Evolving characters
Into the best that they can be


All this time
I’ve asked myself
Why do I stop writing from time to time?
Better still
What causes me to stop?


By rushing forward
Merely dumping
Stray threads
Onto paper
Hoping somehow
They will weave themselves
Into stories
Lashing the page
Like a whip to flesh
Does it not affect me just the same?
Do I not take the beating too?
Energy dwindling
Focus scattering
Mind wandering
To the next best thing
No longer fresh
Nor fun
Seeking an escape
And seizing it


These words
Must have purpose
Emotion
Furthermore
They must elicit
A sense of satisfaction
Fulfilling some part of me
That desires
That raw essence
Of what it is like
To be alive


If I do not have this
Then I have nothing
I must slow down
Take in the experience
Write down everything
I see and feel
The experience I am left with
Must have opened my eyes
To new worlds
Make me think in ways
I dared not before


But even if
These words are wrong
They will guide me
To the right path


If I am not proud
Of what I’ve written
Even in its crude form
Then what have I accomplished?
Only more work
I have created for myself
Toiling away
On loose thoughts
More trouble than they’re worth
These words
Spent foolishly


All words
Can be made dispensable
It’s the meaning
Given to them
That stays with us
Filling a space
We did not know existed
Deep inside