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.
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