The blank page is a little daunting today,

but it’s no big.

I’ve got words I don’t even remember getting,

picked them up in a book or conversation –

or perhaps a dream or publication

in between the pretty pictures of the girls in haute couture.

I breathed words in like perfume

pasted into folded edges of glossy pages

full of dreams and aspirations,

distracted by torment and accusations

embedded in the pictures of unattainable conventions.

I accepted the impossibility of ascension

to that photographed perfection

and moved on, forgetting the important stuff.

I’ve got a lot of words, I think.

I stored them somewhere I can’t remember

and shrunk them down in my mind

to be blind to their existence until the right moment arises

when they slip out of the drawers

of unlocked filing cabinets not shut tight,

crawling like inchworms on a string

that I walk into, unavoidable as they are,

like webs belonging to a spider of indeterminate description.

Words are my addiction.

I crave the right ones and know

the first is usually just the ticket

and I know, now, to pick it

thanks to the teacher I’ve found in King.

The right words sing with truth and conviction.

Here I am!

Delete me at your peril!

Sometimes the writing writes itself

fearing the dusty shelf of forgotten words

in the critical and doubtful mind

of an unknown writer.