I do not know how to write a poem-

I end up swearing and throwing pens.

My walls weep long trails of colored ink,

my hands are deeply stained with death.

Metaphors are mangled and torn

in the machinery of my madness.

In a corner, limp, heaped bodies

with splayed, supplicating hands,

images I flung to their deaths after being

ground to pulp beneath the cogs of my creativity.

White sheets thick with black frustration grow

in the unnamed burial grounds

of the storage closet

and in the vaults of cellar bins

the bleached bones of numberless words

knock and rattle against their lids.


~ by Mark Neal on October 26, 2008.

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