Words Hang.

Words hang.

Words hang, 

stale-locked-tights,

deep in the cavern of my mind.


I wander in

dark circles under my eyes.


My Eberhard's a waiter,

and has led me nowhere,

my thoughts are tabled,

and reserved quite early,

but my pencils tips offer me

less than 20%,

on the scratching out

of some profit,

while I am in the process,

of devouring my own brain cells.


My pen is useless

for I am already penned,

a prisoner to my visions,

etched in braille, and unreadable.

I feel nothing but isolation.


I try sitting before my darkened

window to the world,

but it's glow is extinguished,

this far down,

within my sheer emptiness.

The web that flows across it,

in endless patterns, and arrays

snares nothing to inspire me.

Nothing juicy to capture,

wrap up, and then draw upon in

my own life's blood,

as I pursue my passions,

for poetic prowess.


My handwriting spider like,

crab walks into doodles.


I am but a pink, nub eraser,

rubbing against blank walls,

and eroding in

crumbs of little use.


Thus I will find some

oil pastels to fuel,

my desires to be artistic,

then I shall drive the urges,

across canvass highways,

to as yet unimagined scenes.


 

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Comments 1 comment

seasoning 6 years ago

so you have found expression through painting also, i would like to see your etchings.

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