I count my words like I'm saving pennies. I drop them in the jar, one two three. I hoard them for another time for the right day to release.
They scream for freedom; I am cruel but wise. I take them out my mouth: a long string, like beads.
I could set them free, I want to spill them over the earth: watch them scatter and disappear.
My words are pennies; I want to be reckless with my spending, spend them all. I want to speak so that I lose every thought I ever invested. But
instead I cage them in a steel bank so they will not ruin me, as wild as they are, as wild as others will think they are.
I choose the right words from a practical set; I pick the sentences normality should like to hear.
I am selective. The result is I don't say much at all. I think I am smart when I finally let my sensible words fall. But
somehow, they look at me and turn away, as if the perfect words I chose for them were terribly dull.
I choose more carefully then,
I think I've got this wrong.