My desk is splintering –
     Each time I go to pen a poem
     I end up with pinpricks and in pain
     Wooden needles dwindling my thoughts into half nothings.

But wearied words keep bubbling in my brain –
     Like fermenting fine wine
     Dazing my work with stray sounds
     Their dull fiery fury only serves to slur my speech.

The page is inked with nonsensical rambles –
     An unedited outlook of my inner mind    
     A canvas confettied with crap
     Everything was purer as a blank slate.