Blog For Free!
Archives
Home
2004 April
2004 March
tBlog
My Profile
Send tMail
My tFriends
My Images
Sponsored
Blog
|
| On the verge... |
| 04.21.04 (1:20 pm) [edit] |
With cramped and ink stained fingers
he hovers over his dilapidated old desk.
His threadbare blazer and near-empty apartment
are the telltale signs of his art...
piles of books serve as tables and
pens worn down to their nubs as chopsticks.
Past dues pay him no mind, he cares only that
his words are recorded as he hears them,
in the glaring glory of phonetics and syntax.
But his pen cannot scratch quickly enough.
Thought and ink spill across the page as his
hand frantically attempts to catch-up to his words.
A single ray of sunshine breaches his cave and
reveals the sweat beading on his forehead.
A smirk escapes his lips, he knows that sweat and
quivering hands translate into great writing.
Days like this are fleeting, so he takes a new pen
from his bag and tosses the most recent addition to
the chopstick pile.
His night will be spent escaping from his own mind.
A night feverish and treasured.
-Molly Nixon
_________________________ _________________
...
Continental pens fly too through my finger's personal ether,
like meteors dripping words, sparks and ignition, then
destruction in and of the ozone.
Words, ink, syntax glittering like fresh spit across the dark
night sky, then,
into the chopstick bin.
Empty, out of ink.
No stray ray of light sifts into this cave of words and books
and stacked art, save thought and touch.
None but those provide space level enough nor speed enough
for mind to screech down to pen speed.
Even night is no escape from mind.
-Eli Nixon
|
|
|
| |
|
|
