Forcing,
Grinding,
Beating,
Breaking,
Till’ it dissolves-
But without reward.
Without poetry.
I wander through an empty house,
With a blank slate.
My mouth hangs open
In the frightful anticipation,
A grotesque eager waiting
To hear the crackle of the quiet,
Long forgotten voice.
Merry music to accompany.
Faint lies,
“It’ll be alright”
but the merriment creates an anger within.
Suffering,
Broken pencils, wasted ink,
Slamming themselves against stone walls
Leaving themselves behind
In the pitiful agony of hope
That something pleasant might emerge.
But alas, it is useless.
There is no more ink,
No led,
No charcoal,
All the wells are dried up,
Nothing but my own rotten blood remains
To help produce a work of words
I can be proud of,
But without success.