blocked, days now and frustrated as hell
how tiring to pour so effortlessly for months
and then the desert comes through pulling
everything from the scape.
sure, there's blooming going on
and the flowers out front are red and yellow
the crepes are starting to burst
and the grass is green, but my words keep dying.
cancer maybe, eating the page as if it were a white blood cell
nothing but black mire in its path and wasted time.
the screen laughs of course, and i grow angrier, my time taxed.
lunch hours dry as a bone. admin watching and me keeping silent
about my passion.
what will it take? i am not van gogh and don't have the muse
for which to segment.
maybe time, that old benefactor, so patient, he passes and eventually
the words reappear, chasing a black cloud of darkness.
why then? that is maybe where it lies, the truth.
why when things are at their darkest am i so quick to spill?
of course what comes out is often unsavory and sour,
but
the souls eat that up.
you're dark they say, and i laugh, because they know nothing.
so when then? when shall i expect their hardy return?
i guess to hold tight is my only choice. transitions everywhere
literally and figuratively. summer itself bringing professional shift.
earlier days brought round and sunrises rushed, life constraints.
i'll wait though, be patient, as i've been for so long now, howling
only occasionally.
