i'm beckoning the wild harlot letters that breeze past the entryways, always too big to fit but too insignificant to have verbal meaning. they pushpull pullpush themselves until they form words, then sentences, then passages, and then they become a monster of a poem that threatens to eat me alive with flickering syntax and linguistical tongues. they rip, they gouge, they take and they break until they've had their fill of my blank pages, until they're ripe enough to carve into the stone muscles of the nighttime air. the i's are dotted with inked ferocity. the commas blanket my fear into conjuncted catacombs that willow with the lack of discourse. the punctuations leave me breathless, punctured, and i plagiarize my own death, editing and revising until nothing is written except for monosyllabic musings of why, where, when, who, what, and how.
it doesn't help that the words are taken from the dictionary that only possess definitions of the word love and synonyms that begin and end with him.