A word less of me,
Pray - let me not tell.
I am all worded out,
My tumbles stumble in my haste
To spill the drink,
My words,
My verbal alcohol.
Had I a gun with which
I'd let you spiteless silence me,
I would not listen for the click
But let your finger press the trigger
As your judgement coincides.

"I tell too much"
It is a universal truth;
My teeth and bones,
My broken head, (so readily read),
Bear literary scars.

Stack me high upon a shelf
That I might learn silence
And a coat of dust
To replace the childish babble with which
I haunt your ears.
Let me be that volume,
That never-conquered Tolstoy,
Or perhaps some pallid script
Dredged from obscurity,
That never will be read
Nor thumbed, nor flicked,
Nor first or second-glanced.

Yes please take up that gun
And lodge a bullet in my throat
That I might learn silence
And un-opinion.