The night came and went but my words failed
to find purchase, my muse pretending to prefer
the blankness of a stark white page
glaring from the screen.
Was it depression, the ominous void
of artful expression or any expression,
the lack of words, the lack of thought, the lack of care
scourging my cells and desires?
It’s happened before, you know.
The words jumbled in my brain
twisting my tongue, my thoughts, my feelings
into knots bound with knots composed of knots.
But this time,
it wasn’t the void, the dark chasm, the soulless abyss
haunting my verbage
rather it was the over-abundance
the opposite of the void
where words are crammed into every orafice
screaming to be let out
pounding on the walls
tattering one another in the confines
of their prison until they are mere mush
between my ears.
The words, my dears, my lovers, courting disaster
rushing to claim the trophy
to be used at my whim
without the patience to stay organized
and thoughtful and well-mannered
like a genteel woman.
So I put them to bed
turned out the light
and slept a fitful dreamless slumber
void of predictable dragons
or monsters that haunt my nights
and when I awoke they knocked upon the door
once again, returning to fill the blank of the page,