On the white screen dance the stringed dots Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts Slowly they emerge handholding lines Not always yielding intended designs. Something was brewing inside the head Coaxing to weave and take it ahead The drunken horses so wildly gallop There is no leash to make them stop. Nerves are taut and they won't relax Till all is vented they reach the ****** It was thus fated the moment it was sown What's to be grown could never be known. As the fever wanes arrives the new child It may be adored or it may be defiled The canvas is washed clean as in the rain Something is brewing to be vented again.
Oh, whispering whine of my evening tormentor, on my blood you dine. Your song of high pitch heralds your vampire habit and leaves spots which itch; Red, lumpy unwantedness peeps out from my summer dress.
I’d rather write than speak My pen is always responsive My ink doesn’t judge my mistakes My paper doesn’t argue My lines never cross me My sentences never disappoint And my words will never leave me