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.
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