The Poisonous Bubble

It's like when articulation becomes just another word

Lodged between lips locked shut

It's like the curse of the writer when you have a bird

In your lungs and it's a vulture

But you want it to be a dove

And all you have is ambiguous imagery

To describe an itch that just can't be conveyed

And all you have is not-quite-right vocabulary to save the day

From that doom seer waterfall under pressure in your throat--

You want it to be expelled from you like a moat

Around this pride and predatory castle you've built for yourself

And it's not healthy but it comes out

Instead from your mouth as a toxic bubble

As you chant in repetition to spare yourself the trouble

Of backwards speech revision,

"Please don't pop, please don't pop"

Sheparding the bubble up above the clouds and the breeze--

Hope the poison doesn't leak-

"Please don't pop"

All of this a consequence for that stupid way you speak--

Maybe it will float high enough

For you to disbelieve

That it has been set free--

"Please don't pop"

Maybe you should stop

That disastrous thing you do with your mouth--

That talking thing

And this time shout--

Or maybe this time, it will pop you

And whatever makes those waterfalls

Will maybe, just maybe

Dry out that well in your throat, too.