The language is getting cut from my throat – Possibly a metaphor for how I judge my thoughts and actions and mind before it has a chance to explain itself
Before it has a chance to bubble and burst – never coming forth
A section here, a section there – particles
The words get picked and plucked – as a child I would pick my mother’s flowers, the ones she scrapped her knees and broke her nails planting, I would run into the house dirt upon my shoes and proudly present the gift to my mother as if I had grown them myself
Before they’ve even bloomed – wondering where art thou my sun?
There is no story yet to blossom – possibly a description of my struggle with story arch or something deeper, but I believe when I wrote it I was thinking of unfinished novels, but maybe it is a mirror for my own life, as I wonder how to live the perfect story?
Because the words are doomed – it rhymed with bloomed. No further meaning