Vanishing Art.
Updated on January 18, 2012
vanishing art
. © -MFB III
somewhere in the eraser crumbs
of that big pink rectangle
that just mangled my poem
are tiny bits of inspiration
not yet ready to be flung
in No.#2 streaks of lead that
leak in a constipated way from
the Eberhard quill in my hand
my pencil has a lead ache
I'm afraid it produces
only pain and so I rub the spots
that hurt the most and wind up
drawing blanks like teeth pulled
from the voice of my soul
somewhere in the folds of my
brain deep in the electric synapses
ideas nap in sinful ways
too lazy to be stirred by the urges
that drive me to write
"look to the sloth thou sluggards."
I flip through the dictionary
with nary a word that moves me
a thesaurus only gives me
more words that match the ones
that leave my arm stilled
I am a blank onion skin parchment
still a bit of a vegetable
still bringing tears to the soul
still a bitter write to swallow
I am a poet..part time
and a struggling artist
in bondage to my own limitations
chained to my quirks they weigh
me down like concrete blocks
in the flow of words
that sometimes seek to drown me
somewhere in the eraser crumbs
is a tiny seed of an idea
sown to soon and never fertilized
it will be swept away and forever
lost to the original intentions
between the teeth marks on my pencil
and the unfinished work before me
I am an indentured servant
to my unsatisfied muse.
