there are daysMature

There are days when wringing out these damp phrases
and wrinkled vowels feels like waging a war with myself,
like the stroke of a pen is a bullet tearing through my hand
and the stink of charred flesh clouds my thoughts
because I am too distracted, too drunk on the simple act
of feeling nothing, to focus on the construction of words
and the arrangement of sentences to form something coherent,
something that will crack into your ribs and twine -
delicately at first, until it gets hungrier - around your pumping heart,
it’s sister sprouts twisting for a grip around your lungs
while I fumble and mutter and erase, over and over.

The End

8 comments about this poem Feed