Sticky

Volumes upon volumes

Can you count all the leaves in the trees?

I sit at a wobbly rotting desk

Scribble illegible letters into blank space

The poor pen purges dreadful delight

Need to get it down before it’s

Lost forever

Lost for better

Lost for words

Beg the black ink to stir answers

To impossible, unknowable anything

.

Writer’s block is not a blockage

Rather a relentless onslaught

A flood of feeling in which

The mind drowns

.

Make a word

Craft a sword

Slice the beast into chewable bits

Spew spit across the table

And hope it sticks

.

The trees don’t count their leaves

They grow slowly, patiently

In no particular direction

In every direction

Into the eternal elastic plane

Not reaching

But moving

Seamlessly

Becoming

One

Always

Ever

Unstuck

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