i remember
when i realized
my hands could
never sketch
the images so
alive in my head
countless hours
dragging the heel
of my palm across
the graphite only
to see disappointment
on the smeared sheet

the pursuit of perfection
from a skewed perspective
is the assassin of creativity

the madness lies
within writing as well
each word needs balance
according to the melody
only i can hear
but when the choir
goes silent
the great flood
becomes no more than
a tepid trickle leaving
me paralyzed in space

thank the silence
for this bullshit poetry
an exercise in sharpening
knives on the whetstone
of a broken heart
tapping veins and finally
spilling the toxins into
a farcical cicada screaming
lowercase suicide notes
leaving paper cuts on
the poor souls who stumble
in here looking for rhymes
or frostian odes to taking
the road less unraveled
to be assaulted by madness
from the hellmarked company

hi.