What do I do with these words that swirl around my head, night and day, and night and day?
Whirling dervishes spiraling in ecclesiastical ecstasies of euphoria, subjects and predicates, subordinate clauses creating expansions of thoughts, blossoming into petals of prose, linking daisy chains of randomness together to form some fractal fractured pattern using common commas along with their elitist Oxford cousins combining phrases that trail off on tangents winding their way like Thorin’s company of thirteen through the Misty Mountains, the wrinkles of my cerebrum and cerebellum, that sometimes somehow find their way there and back again threading the needle to make my point – even if you find me a prick.
But a pragmatic prick who suffers from grammatical gigantism stuffed into my overfed overfat cranium. This over large head blooms sentence stems so big within that they beggar imagination.
What I want is what you wish.
So full I really wish my head would explode,
unless …
unless …
you’d care to be kind, and with your delicate hands you could hold this head gently. You could cradle it carefully. And maybe that might make the words slow down, your cooling hands on my fevered head to slow this mad merry-go-round. To silence this lunatic syllabic laughter.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful?
If that were to work?
You say my words are too much for you.
They are too much for me too.
marcwritesmoorewords 