I, the Writer

Document after document

After paper after text

And yet, the words are running around the room

But have found no place on the blank page to call home.

The adjectives are starting to gang up on me.

They are making it hard to choose between themselves.

I have no predisposed thought of how I’m going to

Pitch my character so I can only imagine

That ‘handsome’ will fit nicely.

The adverbs are truly irritating.

I am not quite sure in which manner she ran,

I am merely inventing. She ran swiftly or slowly

Or even sluggishly. But who is she really?

Pronouns are my best friends.

They know exactly whom they need to replace

And they are always happy to oblige.

The nouns and the verbs are trying to pair

Up between themselves to make my life a little easier.

The dog was eaten and the apple ran. That – that couldn’t be right.

Now they’ve messed the order up again.

I’m certain they did it on purpose.

And then there is I, the writer. I can only guide the words

Onto the pages and find their ways to where they

Truly belong. 

I do not write them, for they are written.

The story does not belong to me, it simply is. 

They know what they want and where they wish to go, where they need to go.

I do not create them, for they have already been created.

I give them a story to build, and call home.