Waking the Writer    


You’ve crossed out too many things. 


permanent ink

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

in your




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.

The countdown

through the page,

gaps like missing teeth.

A stuck record of your thoughts…


Words bleeding

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.