Tessa, She Said Way Too Much

Her face’s all wrung out, twisted mouth.
And in between what she’s told,
I gathered up proofs of what?
Chastened. We’re thrumming, attentive,
respectful, while the worm crept
into our lymphatic cells.

It’s possible to say too much.
What do I know, being so fey, and drawn
into what’s said–harpy-voiced woman
assuming a pleasant, warm side,
climbs up a pedestal, wearing pearls
and a crown, wearing me down.

Prompt: I’m in a slightly defiant mood. Why should I carry on this poem a day business, you tell me. Maybe I should just leave off it rather than say way too much? My poem, of course, is about a woman who says way too much. Refrain from that, please. At least in your poem. I mean, for instance you mean to say the universe is mysterious, mind-boggling, conspiring to send you curveballs, or that people are seeming, endlessly cyclical, neurotic, scheming, unrepentant, absolutely inflated and going to die. How do you plan to say all that? Can you say all that while leaving everything unsaid? If you’re giving up on this, then I don’t blame you. Writers Digest Day 20 Prompt asks to write a poem of what goes unsaid.


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