Blotted

I’m sick of writing. Of the rhythm
and rhyme. It won’t stop and has
become an addiction like the whiskey
I pour down my throat even when I’m
not thirsty any longer. When bottle and pen

are dead I still trot out my fancy
song and dance routine. I’ll let the strong lines
parse for you, dear reader, if you will chance
my move from sport to bloodlust—even
when I’m sure I’ve run out of ink I’ll be
damned if my pen doesn’t find another red

Rorschach blot on this continually
despoiled page. Clean sheets are
a myth, the stains are real and no one
is ever leaving this place untainted.

We all live and die each day, every goddamn
ticking minute, in the hovering space
between
our very heartfelt words, these lies.

~

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s