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.
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
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.