Words I’m Selling

Words for sale don’t soar or tunnel
Nor go splashing in the rain
They just plod along halfhearted
Bound in cold commercial chains.

Words for sale don’t romp at doorways
or bite my ankles to escape
They merely whimper in the corner
Dreading whips that set their shape.

Words for sale don’t shout from rooftops
They cough and wheeze, their breathing rattles
Though they’ve long since been conscripted
They won’t ever see a battle.

Words I’m selling bow their heads low
Can’t quite ever meet your gaze
Sold at auction, bowed forlorning
Mysteries hidden all their days.

Words I’m selling got no rhythm
They don’t have the time to dance
And God forbid they get discovered
In a fanciful romance.

Words for sale don’t get to play games
Like Mad Libs or iambic verse
My much beloved golden gooses
Find their nesting chores a curse.

Indentured words work with reluctance
They cradle hidden cherished rages
Rent checks, bars, and credit cards
Sap away their rightful wages.

Words I’m selling have no vision
They blindly dream of going down
On a last forbidden journey
To the fiction underground.

Words I’m selling have tight pockets
They don’t give an ounce past orders
Always grasping, never giving
They’ll never trespass verbal borders.

Words for sale don’t tempt the senses
They leave a hint of bitter taste
Though they dress up fairly scrumptious
Still cloak a writer in disgrace.