I am writing with my fist, completely wrecked, unable to make my pen work the way I want it to, convince it to somehow get the gist
A fist, a jackhammer going on inside of my head, won’t calm down one bit, let me go to bed until that ink spills right around the word
Until what this poet writes reads absurdly delicious
Right now it tastes rather like the gone off apple I hold in my other hand, bland and lifeless, rotten to the core
What if someone important gets to read my stuff, simply abhors my take on the written word
The fist is beginning to clench all the more, entirely sore now, I write like an imbecile but still, this is the pill that I chose and now I must propose
Spill, just please spill onto the page
Is this poem about my rage, my fear that I will have to make it to a ripe old age before you people decide to take a step towards my door
Rhyme, don’t rhyme, make my lines cry, your eyes fly in jovial silence
No-one wants to read about violence out there, war-torn countries reeling in despair
The North, how that gun-gripping lot did nothing really, they shot their way into the history books
At least they will say that my work took real recognition, these words my only ammunition
Trigger happy, even if a few bullets do manage to miss the intended target – you
I keep on shooting through my own barriers, the ink spills but I reload, intended puddles, placed there in order to have your mind in a muddle
A muddle is good, it stirs the right kind of trouble