The True Poet
by Guardian Angel One

I hate my words. I watch them sit there, unmoving, unbending. They don't flow, they don't stand for anything. They are merely particles for my whim, objects to use. They are accessorized, packaged, and labeled. They cannot be personalized or choose their owner. Incapable of attitude, incapable of choice. What sad creatures we use to display our affection. I regret that I use them And take comfort that I can.