Stubborn poem
Won’t rub out
Stains your fingers
Wets your mouth
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waywardspirit 
And, as always, it’s the words in our heads who make us who and what we are.
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Yes, and sometimes or most of the time it’s so difficult to tell that that is the case that it’s sorta like not knowing. How is it so clear to you?
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Because I listen very, very carefully and I live in an isolated place (which makes it easier to hear).
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I appriciate this call to attention.
I’ll try to arrange some silence to listen and figure out who and what my thoughts make me and what I do and don’t choose to be. I’ll start now
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I hate when a poem I’m writing misbehaves and just won’t listen.
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Yes poems are wild things.
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