name is George, and I'm a recovering writer.
Sometimes, anyway; sometimes
Sitting down with the newspaper when I wake up early,
Going to the processed word rather than the word generator,
what I'm supposed to read,
Trying to think about what I'm supposed to think
Thinking that no news, nothing new, is good news.
But all that while my
addiction is latent, lurking,
And I'm thinking about words, words lining up
in front of me,
Words like shots in the dark, shots from the dark,
Shots like lightning before me, lighting me up,
Words pouring into me,
out of me,
Words dancing on the table in front of me,
Words, words, me drunk on words,
words pouring out
A flood of feeling, flood of meaning, flood of words
Trying to say
the unsayable, speak the unspeakable,
Make it all make a higher sense,
High on words trying to say something, say
Something, please, something, anything....
Usually just drunk on words,
Words down the drain, down the head of the thirsting soul
But sometimes well, once, maybe, or maybe once imagined
The words fired, took fire, burned with the white heat of
No hate, no fear, nothing but the joy beyond fear,
The love for for .... Well.
Drunk again, drunk on words
And where they take me, take me....
visit George at his
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