A Chip Off the Old Writer's Block
Strikes relentlessly thrashing
(from all points
encompassing me) assigned
unforgivingly, vehemently,
witheringly, blind
ding figurative sight, then
I finally craft a title,
then subsequent lines
of poem (or prose) defined
incumbent to pay
proper obeisance deigned
then once a thread bare
theme more or less defined
unleashing skein of thoughts,
(that barrel thru
muss hike key)
utterly entangled,
enthralled and entwined
rather then panic, a series
of deep breaths
decompresses,
deemphasizes, and diminishes
a near futile attempt (thwarting captivity,
futility, and impossibility) to find
even just a faint coalescence,
essence, and furtherance
pitting ma small nose
to the metaphorical grind
stone calmly try
to temper onslaught
of tsunami like brain storm,
yet no matter
how fast fingers type,
a sinking sensation,
sans pursuit to process
this tidal wave sets me
further be hind,
this faux
cat and mouse game,
which forces bust
ting thru out this scribe
demand to answer himself
with minor expletive,
viz cheeses crust
why the ƒ¨ç° must
this doggone eventual dust,
when staking claim
on literary fame and fortune
will no doubt entrust
yours truly to pauper's grave
(if lucky enough
to garner gofundme monies
or not bother, and consign
any viable anatomical
parts of this
well kept body fussed
over with copacetic delight,
holistic insight, and magic night,
where a strong gust
of wind doth suffuse dreamy state
permeating mine subconscious,
where inexplicable
exemplifications doth leap
and prance, while aye
obliviously repose in deep sleep,
which may be the condition
of an unsuspecting reader,
whether an generic
guy or...a Veep.
Copyright © Matthew Harris | Year Posted 2018
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