“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label strangle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strangle. Show all posts
Thursday, October 3, 2019
Implementation
This pen writhes
hisses and spits
poison darts
from the bow of my fingertips.
I wrestle and choke
it down
on an empty
page
the feeling bleeds through
the collected pulp
smearing the white sheet.
Against bone,
the pressure to cave in
begins
at the first period.
Etching the paper
so that complete erasure
is not an option. I strangle
the words, Go On,
in the process.
Artwork credited by Cooper Hewitt, Smithsonian Design Museum, 17th-19th century [Public domain].
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Feather weather
Before I arose the tangerine sunrise squeezed its citrus air through my bedroom window dripping fresh pulpy nectar of a new day onto the co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
The ship sailed West on Sunday The wind was too wild on Wednesday Our arrow plane rips the paper sky, severing space for itself, i...
