The words
come to me
demanding to be
written
& are bitterly
disappointed
to find that I am
me
not
you.
Somehow, they had managed to
turn up in the wrong head
mistaking me for you
because I was thinking
so much
of you.
Too late now
they come to realise
their mistake.
Reluctantly they
agree to stay & be
this
poem.
I can see they are not
impressed.
Missing Bulgaria & ending up
in England in an Irish head
is bad but badder still
geting the sex wrong
& being this guy!
A word breaks down
begins to cry.
'She's got what the Arabs call tarab! '
one word is heard to remark.
Yes...yes it's that  intoxication of the senses
beyond all reason! '
another word elucidates....almost hallucinates.
'Hey shit for brains! '
a bunch of words cruelly calls
'Onelia would have written us
better than this! '
Some words try to hide
in the space between the lines.
Some words hide
in the surrounding empty space
refusing to come out
or even talk about
...'it! '
Some words live lives
of quiet desperation
silently
erasing themselves.
Some words hijack
this page
& turning it into
a paper aeroplane
demand to be
taken to Sofia.
They are already incensed
to have missed your birthday.
So, if by your dreaming head
a paper aeroplane appears
full of frustrated distraught
words
take them
they are yours.
You the better poet
than I could ever be.
You... the great you
me...merely me.