Anxiety is a writer that bleeds incoherent words
From the cuticles that she has bitten off.
She promises herself that she will finish her book everyday,
But she cannot figure out how every expression
Can be constructed with only twenty-six letters.
So she goes down to her local
Dump of a bar and asks the devil
If she can have a dance
To take her mind off the impending end to a romance,
Between her and the end of the sentence.
She sits in the silence -- between A and B, between B and C,
Not able to put the next one down because then she will have to
Give up the last letter and there is so much more
That she can do with an A before it becomes a B,
The period will end the potential.
Afternoon bleeds into night
Which drips into day
And she is left is the same place that she began.
Her head down with a bottle of aspirin
On a chair from IKEA that is supposed re-energize
Checking emails in the morning
From her boss that wants to see a first draft
But expects it to be the last
Smothered in the potential between A and B.