Wess “Mongo” Jolley Poet, and Performance Poetry Promoter    The Raw Heart of Endless Fascination

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My Words

I. My words are too sharp to glide along a blade of grass like a drop of sunlit dew My words are too heavy to soar with the sparrows who weave among the treetops My words are too angry to paint a rainbow or sketch a daisy My words are too weary to dance with the fairies or leap with the stag     My words slink     through rotting leaves     in cold dark woods     My words cower     and hiss a warning     under the stairwell     My words scratch     the ankles and faces     of fearful innocents     My words draw blood     when you flee     at night         And my words taste bitter         and sour in forgotten alleyways         where help is nowhere to be found             Bite my words             Taste them on your tongue             Chew them and force them down             Feel the wriggling of my words             In your throat             And feel them             Dying slowly             In the bitter acids             Of your gut II. My words make no promises My words won't make excuses for the spoiled things you have eaten My words never said they would enlighten you My words never claimed to be wise My words never said they wouldn't fester like a week old bag of salad greens Maybe you ask too much of my words Maybe you expected something profound Maybe you hoped for enrichment Maybe you assumed good will on the part of my words Maybe you didn't know that My words exist only     for my words         exist only     for my words             exist

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