the (blank) page
has stared me in the face
mocking my lips and fingertips
at their gross lack of
articulation
and sadly i lay to rest
my hand of dirt carelessly sown
on the coffin of immediacy

pain hits in waves
i am not sad here
but i am aimless
with a way before carved by canyons of distinction
with a way before me drawn with light sketches
and eraser bits
the friction formed

there is no one to turn to
my bed is padded with discomfort
God turn my hard places to melting wax
and turn my erupting to song

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