some where in my damn office

He calls them

 “the pretty little words that come out of your  mouth”.

 I must correct him.

They do not come out of my mouth.

They spill out of my pen,

via the finger tips and the sharp edges of my mind.

 The words

are lost.

Because I write them down on napkins and

unworthy  blank Forms of the 1040 series.   

They are raw scribbles I cannot control.

I have to write them.

I am compelled by the sounds of the words.

By the feel of the pen.

By the pounding of the keys.

Silent music until I play it hard on paper.

A damn shame.