A Search for the Perfect Words

The ink bleeds deep into the folds

of the page,

no longer confined in my imagination,

it spills.

It forms sounds, words, feelings

I didn’t mean

for it to convey.

I could phrase it differently.

I could try another word.

I could start from scratch.

I could crumple up the page and walk away.

But instead I give chase.

I chase cadence.

I chase rhythm.

I chase that meaning I meant to mean.

But nothing reaches the ear

or touches the heart

or rolls off the tongue

as I meant.

I need the perfect words,

to weave into a basket

that will carry the weight of their meaning.

I stack words like jenga,

I knock them down

and rebuild.

I stalk the façade

of simplicity

of stringing words along

of slamming words together

to sharpen them enough

to pierce the thickened hide.

I pull back the string

and hit just left of center

like an arrow through the heart.