The poem, distanced, courses through the blood
My struggling language clamouring for air.
These empty windows mock the stammering
Of hitching speech, and words broken and bare.

I’m wincing at the glowing laptop screen
The wasted words that crowding weight my brow
Flood, blackly voiding sense. The threatened dream
Aside, it’s the abyss of sleep feared now.

The crave, the waste, the sharpest desperate twist
Of ephemeral need, directionless.
No help, no balm, no answer, nothing missed,
No communication. Just restlessness.

Without unburdenment poems are lost.
They fight me, mocking attempts to conform
To fingers that would type them into shapes
And bind their entropy in rhythmed form.

Relentless, painful voice of poetry
Release the words in order. Let me be.
Please help me pull the corners and unwind
The angry knots of language, bound and twined.

Poems can unleash the mental storm
Without a concrete sense, the words can form.
This blithe poetic form will have to do
To paint it, twisted, meaningless, untrue.

New rhythms force their way, forcing a voice,
But leaving senseless phrases, voiding choice.
With instinct only left, the words remain
With rhythmed poetry, the soul’s refrain.

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