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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Comedy · #1596480
Writers write, right? Well, I wrote it, but I can't explain it...
Wippedd Words

I was sitting alone on the hill near my house;
With a head like a prison, restraining my mind.
A paper and pencil were set by my side,
Not carefully, though. They were tossed to the side;
         I'd just thrown them aside.

Each time I'd set pencil on paper to write,
My hand would lock tight as a miser's account.
Like man without tongue, the words wouldn't come.
I tried and I tried, but the words wouldn't come,
         Diddley-doo, diddley-dum.

So I sat and I thunk 'til my thunky-thing thizzled.
What could I do? The whole world was a blank.
I chuckled a bit and the sound was explosive,
Though the taste left behind was a little corrosive
         And the smell was implosive.

As I waited for rhymes or a story to tell,
I was caught unaware by the whistling man.
He flew down from the treetop to light in the grass
And immediately started a'scratchin his ass.
         I was shocked. He'd such class!

"Please ignore my rude bearing, I know I'm unfounded
But I believe I have witnessed your dam.
You see, I can see that you don't see your plight;
I could watch your discomfort all night and delight,
         But that wouldn't be right.

So, instead I'll impart you some knowledge and see,
If you're able to find your way out of the muck.
It's simple, my friend; there's no rule you must follow.
Embrace the unknown, don't avoid what seems hollow.
         Eera do ja fyn donno"

Well, of course I was clueless about what he meant
And I started to ask, but he stopped me short.
"Words don't mean hoohaw, they're a tool you must use,
Don't be fooled by their shape or accept their abuse.
         Make them your goose."

The whistling man whistled loud and then he ran
At a what which appeared on the back of the wind.
He grabbed hold of its ears, then gleefully screamed,
"Don't be funkled by structure, dance rainbows!" He beamed.
         I thought I was extreme!

Wrong! I was wrong! I was wronger than wrong!
I kept trying to write without keys to the ride,
Thank goodness the whistling man had extras to share.
I climbed on the back of my shackalitare
         (You know, I've a pair).

We rose into the air, then dove through the ground,
Even circled around a couple of stars.
I stopped by to see an old friend who was ill,
Brought a smile to his face and then gulped down his pill.
         His response was unreal:

"Did you garble? Or sabbie? What of your plebbil?
Out writing around - go to work you sham shammy!"
He was right and I knew it, so I gathered my things,
Grabbed my paper and quill. I could hear the bell ring,
         "Make every word sing."

My work is my word and I word when I write,
In the middle of calm or the weightiest storm.
Of all that I do, 'tis the living that's best,
I'll take only my share and leave most for the rest.
         Come, be my guest.

With awareness awakened by unrestrained thought,
I found what I'd missed and my hand was a flash;
The words like wine from a bottle, poured free.
I opened my mind, wippedd words were the key -
         It was always in me.
© Copyright 2009 Trebor Cahne (kalypseux at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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