I Don’t Have the Words

Summary

Michael Ritoch reflects on the struggle of finding one's voice through writing, characterized by a journey of self-discovery, creativity, and the challenges of expression.

Abstract

The author, Michael Ritoch, shares a personal narrative of his quest to articulate his identity and experiences through poetry and prose. He describes the process as both a physical and mental labor, filled with the creation and deconstruction of his written work. Despite the pain of cutting his tongue on words and the despair of not producing a hoped-for masterpiece, Ritoch finds moments of joy and self-recognition in his writings. His journey is marked by the search for authenticity amidst the fear of pretension and the haunting feeling of being lost in imitation. Ultimately, the poem is a testament to the ongoing pursuit of self-expression and the acceptance of one's imperfect voice.

Opinions

The author views writing as a physically and emotionally taxing endeavor, likened to cutting his tongue and laboring on rhetorical highways.
Ritoch expresses a sense of failure for not creating a masterpiece, suggesting a gap between his aspirations and achievements.
He acknowledges the paradox of building cohesive writings while also feeling trapped in a "haunted septic tank" of his own making, indicative of self-doubt and critical judgment of his work.
The poem conveys a raw and honest portrayal of the author's battle with self-expression, highlighting the tension between his desire for genuine creativity and the fear of falling into pretension.
The repetition of "This is / Me" emphasizes a declaration of self-identity, despite the struggle and the absence of words to fully capture it.
Rito

I Don’t Have the Words

I cut my tongue On syllables, definition, And contextual Bliss

I searched and scanned Rhetorical highways while laboring and digging Metaphorical Potholes

In the stories and the iambic meter Of a misled Life My pen dripped A Clitoral Rorschach Butterfly on the blank Page It should have Been a hopeful And unregretful Masterpiece

it wasn’t

In the broken keyboard of my mind I stamped out Parenthetical Prose And hopscotch poetry

I built a mono – And polysyllabic Cohesion Of paragraphs, and chapters, and 4, 5 and 6 lined stanzas

I Twisted and Bent my Writings But the Devil’s Triangle Of imitation, fear, And overblown Pretension Left me abandoned in A haunted septic tank Screaming

This is Me

This Is Me

Without words

_________________________ Michael Ritoch plays at being a poet/writer. He finds joy in his wife, two daughters, cats, one is really fat and the other one is neurotic, reading philosophy written by old dead guys, and his friends. He writes about leadership, pain, life, suffering, and whatever comes to mind.

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