Anxiety is a writer that bleeds incoherent words

From the cuticles that she has bitten off

And promises herself that she will finish her book everyday,

But cannot figure out how a billion stories

Can be constructed with only twenty-six letters.

So she goes down to her local

Dump of a bar and asks the devil

If she can have a dance

To take her mind off the impending end to a romance,

Between her and the end of the sentence.

She sits in the silence -- between A and B, between B and C,

Not able to put the next one down because then she will have to

Give up the last letter and there is so much more

That she can do with an A before it becomes a B,

The period will end the potential.

Afternoon bleeds into night

Which drips into day

And she is left is the same place that she began.

Her head down with a bottle of aspirin

On a chair from IKEA that is supposed re-energize

Checking emails in the morning

From her boss that wants to see a first draft

But expects it to be the last

Smothered in the potential between A and B.