The hourglass spills days while penning insides and outcries
leaking content soaking pages; infecting woven fibril.
Using sharp fragments of semi-coherent tangents I scrape away
the leftovers:

Scraps of unfit metaphors fed to mounds of misshapen sentiment
Rusted similes left strewn on margins like impotent flotsam
Sampled words that don't quite capture the yaw, pitch,
angle, vibe, or taste I'm gunning for.

All tossed - Useless on paper, but useful as a dense foundation
of nonsense to bolster my intent.
The scribbled-out waste; the deep black marks between the final
cut are the raw outpouring I can't let you see.

The mess is too mottled for exhibition
Too fragile and too honest to absorb the stones.