Last night I started writing a poem, but it struggled beneath my pen. I thought at first that I was squelching its voice, pressing too hard, choking it with my ink. I've learned that a poem knows its own identity, craves its own life. I've killed far too many with my persistant desire to enforce conformity to my will. I have vowed not to do it again. Sometimes though I'm unmindful of my own strength and realize I've done it again just in time to watch it draw it's final rasping syllable and die.
Death does not become me, I'd prefer not to sport it like so much fashion, so tonight, I pulled back and listened a bit as it tried to speak. I thought I understood, and started again, lightly. Still it protested, wriggled, twisted out of my grasp. They can be insistant, stubborn, and I'd met my match. We agreed to disagree and I set it free to find a pen that spoke its language, because mine was trying to force dogwood blooms and wet dirt down its throat.