Words echo in empty mind:
Silence – there is nothing to be told of.
She swings back: head,
Hips, lips parted – teeth bared
At blank pages filled with blank thoughts
Glaring back with blank stares.
Chicken scratch piles in the trash and
Oh! Hell: she trips off those parted lips –
She is a pumped clean slate
Couching black dust from the ink
She’s swallowed in hopes
Of spitting up Genius.
How to create when one’s soul is half-formed?
All writers show growth in time but she
Is Jack falling up footholds and
Who even needs it anyway?
It breaks, words sold for
Five cents a piece, the prostitution
Of her desperation printed two stamps away.
The pen is paused,
Her palms are poised –
Words spit like fire from beneath her tongue.