My own words taste stale
       or like a favorite meal,
      overindulged in too many times.
                              They knell in my head, a warning,
fly
                                                                   from mouth,
chewed on, still, out
            of habit.
                     They've grown dull at best, sickening, stomach turning in their worst
but I can't shut up.
     Incessant,
loud and lusty,
 they repeat
              the same old bull shit.  I need a mute button and a
                                     loss of ways to
                                                 write or the courage to choose from the menu,
                                                                                            something new. Monopolizing,
                                                                                               mastering my
                                                                                               mind,
vacuous as rhyme.
With heaven
  as
  a witness, I do solemnly swear
        to tame
       the
       tart, suffer silence,
              stave
              self-consuming, vain and vaulting verbiage.
                                                         Later.
Facts are vapid,
                                                                     feelings
                                                                     favored but my truth gritty on my tongue
                                                                      as your honesty meanders by.  I have to spit it
                                                                           out
                                                                               to save me, ask you what you can not answer..
If you could see me now, see me at all,
the burden of my song would shock you, the scandal of thieving seasons, the lyrics of
                          swelling heart, auditioning for a role I'm too
                                                       old to play now.
Ripen a new year without me, a chapter without my account, my
fluency is fleeing.  Mourning molehills
     no more.
If you want
               to hear my voice, hearken now.
                                   I'm poetic,
full of point and over bold
                                but for moments
                                            more.
The buffet's closing and I am not a
                                                                      smorgasbord.
                                                                              Get it while it's hot, fatten up and feast on what I've got
cause soon the words will
                       writhe, starved for your affection not
                                    again.
Supple once, superlative
          ever,
stirred by sword, they'll stream lulled
                                         and softened, oil colored,
whole.
 A refrain, thickcoming but anew.
You'll look
back in languor, languishing
        in all you never said, lamenting
                                       lack of valor but in sublimity of station,
I'll stun you with my strength of quiet.