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.