Blank
In this room where I write
the wall is my captive audience
my creativity
a steady rock to climb.
My paper a white and cold mountain
my thoughts are confused.
My minds dictionary is filled
with absent pages and my imaginative
window has sealed shut with the rugged bricks
of my un-lived life.
In this room where I write
I am my own critic
where no one else can understand
the hurriedness and excitement of my chicken scratch
Or when my paper shrinks to the size of a cocktail napkin
That wears the shadow of a once revered southern whiskey.
In this room where I write
The walls become a box.
Trapped inside I’m trying to pen and paper
My way out of this seclusion.
My fingers arthritic and ink stained
and the callous on my middle finger
throbs from my writing too hard.
I am pressed for my time to shine
my time to raise up from the table
come from under my weak lit table lamp
and feel the warmth of completion on my face.
My paper a rainbow
my clothes reek of Red Ginger and African Peach
my Footie’s have become too hot
and my clothes too heavy.
I want to be naked
and I am trying here in this room
on this page with the smoothest writing pen that I could find.
