to my fellow wordslingers

i'm finally beginning to understand that it must be hard for the
people around us to fathom these coronas swirling around our retinas
or the sins we sprout like haphazard similes on our tongues.

it's not their fault they do not understand. it's not our fault we
can't explain the ideas that flow like water, like drifting candle
smoke. and i'm so f*cking sick of saying i'm sorry.

tell me, though, what's an old wordsmith to do with these marionette
string veins?

ghost