Staring at the white space before me,
Trying to paint it black with bloody words.
My mind's lost in some twisted blizzard
Of noise and disjointed ideas -
I feel so unaware, out of the loop,
Lost in the frozen wastelands.
Is this depression,
Twisting it's knife in my skull,
Rendering me impotent,
Like some poor cattle
Led to the slaughter?
Each stanza begets a sentence.
Fighting my preoccupation with haiku,
Bandying words about loosely, like improv,
I still try to slap a structure on it,
Like Bob's "Put a bird on it"?
Back to the chilling realization
That I can't think of what to say...
Nothing develops.
It's all snow,
Blotting out the sunlight.
The stains of my pain
Left on the still, pristine banks
That are but a quiet memory
Of the flurries and flakes
That chipped off
The cloudiness of my brain, beset
By Obstinance and Obstruction...
I feel I should be screaming
Into winter's dying wasteland.
I want to emote,
I want to be heard!
Yet, when pressed for a sharp word,
I find myself stung numb
By thoughts mundane and dumb.
Writing is such a chore,
And I'm trying to get out the door,
Thinking a first draft is enough,
Not willing to invest in
Revising it to something more.
The thought crops up,
Like a new sprout in spring soil,
That, next year,
I can revisit all this churning
And tighten it up into
Something fruitful for my toil.
Most of all these words
Are scratchings at the surface -
First draft nonsense,
Tossed out, offhand,
Attempts to save some sort of face.
I don't want to be spending so many hours,
Hunched over the computer,
Mulling over thoughts somewhat sour,
Yearning for those days when I tutored -
Feeling myself mired in deep drifts,
Out of my depth, just scrawling...
No conclusion to be made,
Just a howl in my own way...
Because I still know not,
What I have left to say.
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