The wordsmith
Is it the destined way of man
To plead to beg
To scratch and scrabble
Clawing through naked earth
Like a desperate hungry animal
To dig down to the very depths
Of all that he holds dear
To snip and to sneer
At his own ability
To watch himself flounder
On jagged rocks
Cut and bleeding
To chip away at every sliver
At every splinter of every letter
Of every word
As if it were unrefined silver or gold
To seek out that rich vein of untold wealth
The one of simile Rhyme and word
Of rhythm and saltpetre
To ignite
To fire the spark
To play the fool
To play the whore
For the paying customer
To fight the constant destructive ache
That gnaws and nips
At his heels
Like a long lost puppy baying
Crying for more
Or to bury his head in the sand and say no
It’s not worth all of the torment
And the angst
And yet somehow
Cannot be left
And another word pops out
Rising to the surface it floats
Followed by another and another
Until verse is formed
And gives birth to yet
Another pain racked and unscheduled delivery