Build Me Something Pretty Worth Fighting For

 

I want to live in a house of words, built with pretty syllables and petty conjunctions. Each soft r and contracted t can string along a light, a bright fluorescence within the dim walls of this little room that I’ve built with a writer’s favorite block.
I’ll cement it with punctuation, flawed and pointless, just to keep you guessing which door I’ll open next. I’ll hammer the drywall with the flowing poetry, missing beats, as it’s battered by the misuse of harmony and dissonance. Or I’ll slip through the solid oak of alliteration leading to paragraphs of error and sorrowed syntax.

Pathetic.

It all crumbles and cracks with each click.

My bricks of yearning, building up to something more complete, fall as my chosen letters form words. The stringy words form sentences of saddened need, a need for respite, for help, for relief from my twisted cunning. The desperate sentences tie loosely to paragraphs; the gaping holes allow the elements, the weather, the tiny bugs of insecurity and disappointment in.

It never comes out right.

I just tear it down and rebuild from the baseless foundation again. Reaching for invisible blocks, I hope they possess the power to bind the mortar to hold up something worthwhile; something worth living in; something worth addressing; something worth showing the world.