I've felt my fingers
withered to the core.
Wet chalk on a broken blackboard;
my words powdery prints
yearning for
a string of thoughts
that doesn't screech at night,
or that age old rhyme
that would surely make
the worst of my burdens
light.
Yet words that held no meaning,
leave me empty once transposed
from their coddled womb of inspiration,
to confined sentences in rows.
A thousand locusts inciting
itching urges
to scratch my mind across
a page,
but try as hard as I may
my rhymes betray
my age.
No wisdom pours
from out my lips, nor
knowledge
that is deep.
For all I ever held
with any depth,
I've dwindled in
my sleep.
Listen:
Despite my clingy nature,
and as unlikely as it seems,
I swear to You,
those **** locusts
ate my dreams.