Monday, January 07, 2008
Writing. And crossing it out.
Words. Born of sooty ink,
Only to be annhilated,
Wiped out,
By thy own flesh-hoard.
There doesn't seem to be a way,
Any way, to put it down.
No right method to untangle
These damnable twists and turns.
No strength to break the walls.
Speech crosses Thought.
Colliding in splendid calamity.
A pink tangled mass,
Lathered in foamy spit.
But the cat didn't do this.
Your eyes. Cool and Brown.
Like an Autumn's breeze blowing in Winter.
Inspiring the best the pen can give,
And yet, twisting the nib,
All at the same time.
5:46 AM
