Poem, 3/23/11

[herbailiwick]

3/23/11
Each word trapped in a page
Hides a furious rage.
The words I fail to speak
Circumvent fair critique.
My chapped lips form the waves
That cause movement in graves;
These old graves would erase
If graphite was home base.
I know words can stir up
Hammer, anvil, stirrup.
I wish to prevent this
Yet I'm no apprentice.
I haven't the right tool
To not be a werefool,
And no silver I own
Rectifies bullets sewn.