Wednesday, April 8, 2009


The Pen Ran dry, only Etching deep Crying lines of Blankness on the paper,

the voices started Moaning again, the Faces push thru the walls

the Sweat smells like Sea Salt, Dripping from my face, Wash my face in Blue Seawater

Look in the mirror

Short Dreads writhing like Snakes, Water dripping from my face has turned Red

Congealing Like Blood

the Paper screaming for retribution, Trees and Brush with crows in their Boughs

Spring up into my living Room, I fall into 4-foot mud Pits

on my way to the Paper, Climb out, I'm nearly Screaming for a Release

Grab the knife discarded onto the kitchen floor, "don't do it", they say, knife to Wrist

the Pain is more like a Burn, the ink spills from my Wrist like blood, easily forming

Legible Script on the Page

It flows without Reason, Without Remorse, it Dries instantly, the trip is Over,

I dry Heave

Next Morning

Awake in a pile of my Own Words


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