Then I give a thousand apologies to all the poems I have spurned.
And I give a thousand thanks to all the inks of this earth.
I have squandered all the paintings of my mind,
Replaced by curly Q's and dotted I's,
But since the imagination is desperate to die,
It has puked up it's innards across these lines.
And despite my perfect eyes, I can not see.
Despite the perfect lines, I can not read.
I try and try. These symbols, what do they mean?
Even as I write them, I try and listen in;
To this beating in my chest,
To this hammer made of tin;
Screaming through my fingers,
Pounding out my soul,
Onto tree bark,
Onto paper,
Where it all just turns to mold.
Writing "why?" in my tears,
Scratching "Anger" in my blood.
I paint a thousand pictures a day,
Drawn out in ash and mud.
But the pounding never stops,
The ink just comes in floods,
And I'm left with an empty pen,
Writing ethereal words to be blown away by the wind.
Stolen by the zephyr of my empty canvas,
A single word picture of the things I miss.
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