Waking the Writer
You’ve crossed out too many things.
on temporary pages,
each letter shaped hopes
someone on the other side is listening.
You’re covered in inked
scratches, because the
exact words could
not be found
Wishing your life away,
for those unspoiled words
to appear on the page
can only become so easy.
Nobody wants to be an occasional writer.
There’s no halftime show, you’ve
reached the last act.
through the page,
gaps like missing teeth.
A stuck record of your thoughts…
onto pages that are empty.
until your blood kisses the paper
and your fingers become ballpoints.
the effortless act of when moving
a pen becomes breathing.
The ink drops.
It falls like dew, upon
a thought and stains the glass.
The words begin to clamour and call begging
to become visible. And finally the record crackles into motion.