A Writer’s Tragedy

They form like the bubbles in a hot spring
propelled by mystical energy
filled with excitement of possibility
they race to the surface and explode, releasing
inside, outside, everywhere, all at once
“Here we are!”
their silent cry
announcing existence boldly
they are

then like good little soldiers
these words gather round
consumed with direction and purpose
they grasp and hold
disappearing into collective rationality

why do you run?
I want you so badly
we cannot be caught
they scream in pure glee
we are wise

pure

creativity

Now the words do what words always have.
They organize, add grammar, semi-colons; stops.
And sadly in doing so, the best of it
lost.
Beyond our control,
we have no other choice.
Even cliché’s must have a voice.

This burden we carry
This challenge we take
This compromise we make