Words

I cant put into utterance really

Scribblings, one-dimensional expressions

They often disappear into an abysmal place

Words aflame – giving witness to its cremation

Its carbon enters my nostrils – roving around in there

Like a narcotic in a strung out addict,

The ashes leave a powdery trace on my prints

The soot of toxic words, juice through my veins,

And yet dance against the smoke signals of my sadness

A basin undertakes all the blackened remnants that refuse to rise

And the charred paper sits quietly on the bottom

Some words don’t catch fire – they keep alive

As bittersweet reminders of my distress and ache

But I write still; a profusion of words

Spilling, betraying, divulging the recesses of the heart

And they glare back at me,

Like gaunt stick figures in a concentration camp

The burial ground of the scripted mind works quickly

Feverishly, hastily tap tapping words on the white

Like a lightening bolt surging through those over-used fingertips

Electrifying verbs and phrases sparring at each other

And the pen retreats itself from the ferocity of white

I lay it down and observe its handiwork

An unsightly sore, a painful contusion lies before me

Yet those are mine own words, my own affliction.