I
hate how the light bounces off
This
sparse white sheet
Which
thirsts for words
That
may never come.
How
funny would it be
If
it turned around
And
slapped me in the face
For
wasting its time with false promises?
Time.
There’s that dreaded word again
Creeping
up my skin
Like
an insidious snake
Preparing
to strike
Me
into senselessness.
Everything
affronts my nerves tonight –
The
whir of the fan,
The
shadows it casts
On
its vigil around my battered ceiling;
The
grunts down the hallway
As
a sweaty stranger preys
On
daddy’s little princess;
The
unruly strands of spray-dyed hair
That
sweep across my brow,
Stealing
my vision.
Where
is the madness promised to us?
That little spark to reanimate
That little spark to reanimate
The
rotting remains of intellect?
I
will trade my soul
For
a few sorry rhymes,
Spill
blood and sweat
As
sacrifice
To
conjure words
From
emptiness.
They
tell me to settle down,
Find
a nice young boy
And
ruin his life;
Hang
the apron-noose
Around my neck
And
slip
Into
a life
Of
picket-fenced perfection.
They’re
joking, of course
But
on nights like this
Of
empty bottles and double vision
I
almost believe them.
If
my mother should see me now
She’d
tilt her head and sing
Into
this abyss of shattered dreams
That
old refrain –
“I
told you so.”
The
words will haunt me
Till
I die,
Echoing
into
The
afterlife.
Yet
something in me still persists,
For
ego is a feral beast
And
only if my pen would write,
Some
lofty tale I’d bring to life –
A
legend whispered long ago
Of
dragon-slaying or of woe,
A
pretty damsel in distress
Whose
charming knight is put to test,
A
wily temptress in disguise
Brewing
potions for a price.
And
just when I have stalled my fears,
The
magic kingdom disappears,
My
words dry up,
My
prose runs thin
And
old foe silence
Creeps
back in.
If
you should see me by myself
On
nights like these,
Please walk away.
This
cross is mine to bear alone;
I
risked too much, I should’ve known
That
fickle fancy’s not my friend.
But
still I hold this idle pen,
Praying
for a miracle,
To
scribble through
Life’s
sorry test,
Not
knowing that
My
muse is dead.
