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A Poem about Words


I remember a time

when grappling with words

was a suitable source of pleasure.

Spinning them round

and pinning them down,

nailing them to the page,

ignoring their screams of rage.

And now the torturers pen

is at it again,

flogging the syllables,

flailing the verbs,

asphyxiating adjectives,

ahh, the pleasure of words.

You can do what you like

and they have no recourse,

no justice to turn to,

no jury, no courts.

So I do what I like

to the poor little things,

make spelling mistaks,

and run rings

(around them).

I give them no space to moan

about pace and tone,

no chance to complain

that it doesn't rhyme.

We invented them after all,

conceived them with our brains,

birthed them with our pens,

so why should I make amends

for years of slaughter.

So forget the veterans of violent wordplay,

the prisoners of Scrabble

and the survivors of Countdown,

because they're only words after all.