Words are my faith,
my addiction.
Like a junkie jonesing for a high,
I crave their rush;
…oh, the euphoric plateau
when I have created,
been made diety
by the virtue of my mind
and precious, powerful words!
I am brought low often
by blankness of mind
and empty paper,
beseeching me
to bring life to its whiteness.
But the muse can be a tease,
and leads me with syllabic carrots.
I reach hungrily,
yet my fingers slip;
failing to hold onto that perfect phrase
that will fit right here, right now.
I fight harder to reclaim
the favor of language,
its soft susurrations call to me
and I cannot give into emptiness,
but must feed my need,
with pen instead of needle.
I scribble garbage,
purging filth
that beauty may flow again.
Poetry forms slowly;
through labor
and bouts of vacuousness;
a fix all the more filling
for its challenge to my soul.
——————-
(C) jp 6-3-12
