Sitting at my desk with
pen and paper in hand.
A stack of poems sit by
the corner. Each one
finished. Each a piece of me.
Dip the pen of my soul into
my heart's blood and begin to write
one last time before sleep.
words pour out from me
like from some Pandora's box.
I am unable to stop them,
unable to slow them....
Faster, faster I write but
it is not fast enough.
There! One more finished
but three more have painted
themselves on the canvas of my mind
and refuse to be silent.
Screaming to be expressed,
demanding to be portrayed
agonizing voices I must give life.
More paper...more blood...less me.
Writing faster now.
My pen speeds slong the paper
so fast it bursts into flames.
Put out the fire with my tears
and run to the keyboard.
Come on, come on....
Too many poems, too many voices
must express them but which one,
all at once? None at all?
Typing with a sound like a
train rolling by. The keys
fly beneath my fingertips.
Spelling errors appear....
it doesnt matter. Fix them later...
must express, must see, must....feel
It has been so long.....
Write, write, type, type
until I begin to cry and
embrace the nothingness I have become.
What am I without my work?
Am I still a poet? Still one of
the chosen few people envy for
their words on page? If they only knew...
Then they would not want this gift...
beautiful words cost you pieces of your soul.
Letting strangers see the real you,
unsure of their intents, yet needing them.
I hurl my pen across the room....
burn the poems to ash
but the ashes still move, still speaks.
And I cry, for I have nothing left to do..
yet so much at the same time...
Exhaustion?? Far too simple a word
to describe how I feel.
But it will