It began then,
I used to practice on voodoo dolls
Aligning with the pencil first
But even then, something jerks the wrist
As my thoughts grow, futile
To chase after it
Vexing and curses said
I feel the weight
Of an eight-ton boulder of granite, leaded
Asserting its antiquity
On my shoulder, I can still try to erase
Rely on random distraction
Bolts are bold sparks-there I said it-
Losing my place
Lets me go
I fight with me
Incessantly, and yet words escape
Somehow-I’ve always been this way
Scribbling furiously, relieving pressure, dying inside
Without a place to put
What I no longer have room to hide
Scratching the surface with graphite
I hope the day comes when
Ink doesn’t remind me
of my own blood.
Image of drawing by Carl von Bergen (1891) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
No comments:
Post a Comment