Writer's syndrome

The left hand corner of my chair

jabs into my backside, 

like my teacher's verbal jabs

folding my ears into close 

and my eyes into focus. I scribble

chicken scratch over blue lines 

as if they are the floor 

that lets every word walk to a beat

that holds everyone in a camera flash

of my own life.

From there, I change pulse

and the words dance to a new groove,

letting a fresh flavor fondle 

at the heads who need a new routine. 

Sweat forms it's bed on my cold skin

and a tingling charges down my back

and every word on the page

is like smooth draughts

of water in a desert. 

I start gasping for breaths,

trying to place an outro

in my masterpiece of empathetic 

art. A pause, a thought to stop,

a shake of a head far too gone,

And back down as I place a final note

and collapse into a self applause,

hoping I get to do this again.