Am writing to complain about these words
you have given me,
That I carry in my bag...

They must be made of lead,
I haul them everywhere...
I've cricked my neck,
I'm bent with the weight of them

And when I get them out and put them on the table
they tick like bombs,
And overpower my own sweet tasting, vulnerable words...

I've been leaving them, crumpled up in pedal bins,
where they fester and complain...
And then you say
Where are your words my friend?
What have you done with your words?
Or worse, you give me that dewy look..
Poor friend has lost all her words...
So I was wondering,
dear friend,
If I could have a locker,
my own locker,
with a key...
I could collect them
One at a time,
And lay them,
Safe and sheltered,
With a garnish of
Honey and sugar.