I’m so sick of words of mediated truth
Especially of the nasty words
Which I have enervated through overuse

And even more the clever words
Drawn from a vast vocabulary
That isn’t all that vast

I’m tired of worrying
Over the preponderance of abstraction
The deficiency of action and image

I’m sick of points that skewer
Of stitching and unstitching
Of conjuring a reader

How dare I flaunt my gift like that
As if I were free to exercise my whim
People don’t choose who or how they are

I’m sick of mining my consciousness
For impressions and conclusions
And tired of judgments and estimations

And sick of the compulsion
To speak to sing to inscribe record and detail
Emotion recollected in distress