Sonnet CCXV

I have a topic every time I write – but then –
it squirms and wiggles, thrashing everywhere I move,
develops like a foetus, growing more and more,
until I see how everything should rightly end.

However, not expectantly, my words amend,
rewriting to another place. My child’s gore
spills on my page, controlling me. I start the war
and soon we battle. Who shall win? Just find the end.

And you shall see how thoughts have sorted out like mice,
lined up at last, behaving prim and clean and nice.

But oftentimes my children come to pressure me.
I follow what they tell my hands, which should suffice,
but no – the war shall rage. And in the end, advice
from them has changed my writing to another beast.