Apr 29, 2007
Tap. TapPlaying hide and seek with my muse sometimes is irritating like an itch that desperately needs to be scratched :P
goes the pen.
aching
to flip over
and touch
the page.
held
back, back
by this bulwark
in my mind.
The ink in turmoil
swirl, swirl
at the edges
insisting on being
heard just this once.
Scratch, scratch.
How slowly it
starts.
First a trickle
of thought punctured
by rapid scrapes that blot
into pictures that bleed, bleed
from the mouth, the words tumbling,
rolling, gushing forth, spilling on to the
sheets like thunderstorms shaking in delirious
anticipation for the proverbial gasp of a full STOP.
Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Breathe before
it slips, slips quietly away, the nouns
climbing up the ladder back, back
to the lighthouse atop my head
to lean out the windows-
eyes that will watch
the wounds
scab.
if
I
let
them
scab.
Labels: poetry
