There's nothing left to be written
on paper.
For it's all been said,
And it's all been read;
Most of its writers: dead.

I remember that day specifically;
How could I forget it?

The day my wife passed.
Or left.
I consider it the same.

It was July of 2003, and
the 17th day of said month.
She looked at me bewildered.
As women are oft to do when they don't understand me.
She said something that I only
remember as incoherent.
For I was elsewhere.

She had stated something
about my lack of work.
While it's true,
I had not seen my cubicle in weeks,
I had more important matters in which to attend.
She lacked understanding,
compassion,
love.

And as she reached for the piece in which I was staring at,
Threatening to tear it up,
To burn it,
I lashed out in such anger that I ne'er knew was possible.
I screamed
as through force, I knocked her down.
I threatened to tear her up,
to burn her.
And with wide eyes filling with tears,
She left me alone
Alone in the house
Staring silently at the deer head
and the body of a businessman

That my father had left me
When he left me

The inheritance of the deer head and the body of a businessman.

He draws lines in the corner of the page
Creating what could be a rectangle
Though the sketchiness of each line
Told a differing story
And as he angled his pencil
He filled the "rectangle" in
Scraping graphite against paper
He scraped
and scraped
and scraped
Searching for therapy within each stroke
Once his job was done
His quest completed
He left feeling different
but whether that was positive or otherwise
was yet to be discovered.