Akira Gollihue Poet I do not know?

Writer's Block

The pen has betrayed me! 
The ink has swallowed me as spit on a fly.
I burn pages with fiery lightning bug breaths
That spill from pokey jar-holes.
If I touched flame I'd very well melt to the floor.
I would bleach your Turkish rugs.
I would ruin the drapes.
And I, a sighing house abandoned.
An echo of Hillary on his mountain.
A babe buried by Antoinette.
What I would write, I would write
if I could!
I may have a blind mouth.
I may be a beaten moth against railroad lamps.
I still hear that old pen laughing, oh enemy
That I could never leave.
I curse you only to nurse from you,
for the nourishment a mother forgot to give.
I always tended to settle, any ways.
I always intended to stay.
Some days silence is a newspaper-holding man,
that glances to me for a moment, 
Just to call me a mutt.
But others days I am sick, and it is
Warm blankets and a wet washcloth on my head.
Pen knows this too well.
A trade to swear soul to an ink.

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