A blank page is a disease, eating away at all our thoughts.
Ink flows from ear to ear filling up the empty slots.
Words spill about the page only leaving blots.
Clots from the tongue fill and fend what the critics try to bend.
All we ask is for our head wounds to mend.
Tending to our brain
forgetting to let the rain
be the subject of sensational detain.
Never should we restrain.
Let our thoughts
from the end
The pavement is cold and our bodies are filled with bold lines of escaping thought. Stab wounds etched in images of the moon. As if we were only reaching? Breaching the stars beyond our window sills and sailing straight towards the ground. Bound by words on a page and gravity. Yet, the inkwell is untouched; not a single word written.
Nativity of the mind is ironically its own antonym.