White, crisp pages in hand
Your eyes swivel, survey
A smile twists, a laugh bursts forth
Facing me sternly, you whisper
“Could you write something better?”
There it is –
In only five short words
Bare, ordinary,
But I feel as if my head’s
Been clean-cut from my shoulders
And tumbled to the hardwood floor
My passion gags in my throat
Open eyed and dumb
Off-center, you tell me why you feel that
My writings – my passion – my life
Are insubstantial, a little
Nothing black print
Much like white crumpled checkers
In three seconds you’ve
Taken novelist to nothingness
Factory work, fingerless
I’m facing future head-on
I’ve taken blows from strangers
People cross-country, twenty thousands miles away
But here, in my kitchen
I feel the heat hit home
Five platinum darts right
Into the aorta –
Blood gushing and I ran away
Tear-streaked, immature,
Whatever
(Ashamed)
Flash-forward, I’m eating a bagel
And you try to mutter that your sorry
Through a black-inked newspaper wall
But my music’s loud and
I can't hear you anymore
Convinced every word is hateful,
Stubborn when wounded,
I want you to listen to me cry myself to sleep
From now on the only pages you get from me
Are blank ones
