deadlines and open wounds

are creeping
yet i bounce
between four
stories and
think about
ten others
i will likely
never write
hoping for a
calm in the
storm or at
least to sit
in the eye
for a while

my emotions
are a color
wheel constantly
and depending
on the hue
i can write
ten thousand
words in a day
or sit staring
at the flashing
line for weeks

the wheel is
throwing me
into a stasis
of anxiety
self doubt
is the vocal
killer while
the persistent
ache just feeds
the chaos

the whiteboard
is filled up
front and back
yet the quill
dips into
the everflowing
stream with
little concern
for the whims
of a simple man
the goddess only
smiles when she
sees fit to allow

i don’t want
to sleep
because i can’t
bear to wake up
still feeling
this same way
and i can’t
write as the
color shifts
too rapidly
spinning into
a blurred line
of solid black

deadlines and
open wounds
a congregation
of rabid baboons
exciting anxiety
a weekend soon
to be wasted
in a watercolor
wasteland of
permanent haze
where everything
is set at dusk
with wispy hints
of heartache

too manic
to do anything
but spin out
a poetic tornado
leaving a swath
of destruction
in my motionless

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