More than a dozen prickling

words attack my body

little by little.

Some assault my face,

my nose, my lips, my eyes.

Several of 'em cut

through my head.

A few gash my arms and

a couple stab my chest.

I could feel the

piercing pain on my palms,

still suffer the sting

on my feet.

Bit by bit

those tiny bullets

you shoot at me

rip me to pieces.

When trapped outside

There are a lot of things
to think about, to write or sing about
There are rules to writing
a poem or a story
but oftentimes I get lost
among all the cacophony
Fairies and prairies sound magical together
I throw them in the air
over my head, without any care
Rhymes and times I’d like to consider
but they all come out jagged,
fractured and rough
like a broken mirror
or a torn piece of paper
A collection of words in a connection
forming a most peculiar pattern
No, there’s no intention of any
But there always emerges
an image, a sound,
a priceless piece of symphony
that the eyes delight in touching
and the ears excite in tasting

Blown away

In my solemn solitude
silence takes over.

Nothing can be heard
but the passing of the wind
through my hollow head.

Then slowly I hear words
fluttering near my ears
merrily playing around,
chasing one another.

They whisper teasingly,
these restless butterflies.
They seem thoroughly eager
in seeking for a place
to settle at last.

But these flighty thoughts
are often a tricky catch.
And when I come near
to finally grasping them,
the strong breeze blows by
and takes them away.