Incessant

I've buried you under layers of sand and memories. A life so busy, I don't have time for you anymore. To take time out of my life to put pen to page, it seems ridiculous. Everything has changed but you. Is it that I can't be free of you? That you are unable to change? Would that I could rip you out of me, finally be free of the verse and prose. Would that I could take a knife to you, to end the eternal monologue in lyric in my head. Why can't you understand that not everything needs be written? In the past I indulged you to excess, let you free to fly across the page. Now you plague me with your insistence. Rusty and unused as you are, I take you out once, and again you rattle in your cage. You vile artistry, you detestable curse. I simply don't have time for you, in this new and rushing earth of mine. Yet as subtle as the lily incense I set to burn, you tap against my skull. waiting again for me to set you to page.