Thursday, January 05, 2006


Each time I vow anew to write
with ink that’s toxin-free
carcinogens of excess fright
pollute my amity
then slowly cloud inspired sight
to taint the muse’s plea.

No matter how I try to purge
this poison from my veins
it always seems to roughly surge
and drown what hope remains,
then flood me with a sickly urge
to scrub these inner stains.

Abrasive solvents start to eat
away my weak protection
which causes a resigned retreat
from further introspection;
the true extent of my defeat
revealed by vivisection.

As organs hit the waiting scale
a tape machine should start,
didactic tones would then regale
with tales of every part,
imagine how their skin will pale
when they remove my heart—

a darkly shriveled lifeless lump
destroyed by foul abuse
of all the pain that life could dump,
wrung dry of vital juice,
denying me just one more pump
convinced there was no use.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

to talk for hours
about anything, about everything, about nothing.
to sit quietly
staring at the world, at the snow, at each other.
to find comfort
in a touch, in a kiss, in love.

but for today

honest compassion
from a friend who is perhaps unable to find the way
to be anything more or anything less.