I wish I were a waterproof writer.
My words get saturated too easilly
by the viscous liquids that pour from my body;
tears fall on my vowels, blood sullies my verbs,
and seawater creates eddies through my muddied thoughts.
If I could don a rain slicker
or those nice tight rubbers that slip over my boots,
maybe my words could be saved
from the unwanted deluge
that washes them clean of their intentions,
blurring them into not-quite-what-I-said
or sometimes melting them entirely
into an unsalvageable goo which renders all lost.
Maybe at least I need a waterproof editor,
wrapped up carefully in a full body dry suit
who can wade into the inky colloidal suspension
of fear and fluids to pluck out the flotsam and jetsom
and place them gingerly on an island to dry
and reform in the warm summer sun.