Wednesday, December 5, 2012


Every word forced
Trying to cohearse
Fire from stones.
Where is the spark?
The friction I've known.
Fact is easier than fiction,
The affliction
Of having nothing to report.
Out of practice
Spinning misery rhythmically,
Looking for a memory
To feed creativity
But every word falls bland
Too bordered in methodology.
Words as dead
As their Latin roots
As deep as the ink on computer screens,
As shallow as the garbage devoured daily.
Pressed hard against the realization
That reality is fed to me
With laugh tracks to my lethargy,
Burning through neurons
With hard facts.

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