The Void

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

of feeling,

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,

the void.

 

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