Bang my head on the keyboard
or Edit, and it's still not there.
Stab myself with a pen-
blood doesn't flow like ink.
I'm not going deep enough.
Wrestle with words and choices,
so many I swoon, dizzy with dialect.
Research always interrupts, conniving
cuts the line midsentence.
Doubt-well, you know.
If I stop all together it's too much.
If I let go completely it's too much
evasive etymology
and not just the words that wander...
I'm led all over elsewheres, other places
by memories, imagery, crap-aphony noise
vying for my prompt attention!
And then, when I push hard enough
to leave a mark.
By means of suffocation,
I can feel the pulse intensity.
The louder the heart beats the page
blue and red
and when it's read
I know my fear shows
how I really feel
as I instead tell you
taking my final breath
choking on my ink.
Finally, dead and gone,
without ever leaving a mark.
Image of painting by Henry Wallis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1856.
