Thursday, October 3, 2013

Good Writer

She makes me angry.
Who can cut an edge finer than that?
Every word; my visceral heaven,
I eat them raw, to the hilt.

Who puts poems on screens anyway?
A digital mist; pixelated lake.
She lays hers on thick, linen sheets,
I press them like wax under flame, and she's

Possessed me.
She knows she burns;
The nightmares, the sacred.
I'll come back, crawling and spent.

The strike of the pen,
The creak of my heart.
Every page drowns me,
Her ink dredged revenge.


photo credit: Roger Smith via photopin cc

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