Are writers master of their words?
I could hardly feel it to be so,
sitting here demanding presence
as the servants chuckle at me —
Nor anymore are they equal company,
to be greeted like your friends
who find themselves ruffling through
your kitchen goods and drinking coffee,
No — words are something else clearly,
an oracle of sorts, and until she speaks
I am nothing but a sham with words.
Whenever I find myself writing about writing, it’s a good sign that I’ve hit a mental barrier. Tomorrow will mark the 2/3rd way point of this year-long venture. So close, yet so far away if ideas were to dry up.