The Tortured Scribe


Delusions scatter, inspiration dwindles;
how then shall I progress?
The world revolves on a shaky spindle
and the heart barely beats in my chest.

Having given so much to this wretched life,
I fear I’ve gone insane.
I awake at night with a sudden fright
and a fever in my brain.
I reach into descending light –
a trembling hand extends;
my fingers white, with no insight,
I grip the writer’s pen.

Words drip onto a page uncurled,
a scattering of thoughts still burning –
my soul calls out, “God, let me out!”
and speaks of desperate yearning.
Like splattered pools of fallen rain
that swallow my reflection,
I’m lost again and deep within
the fog of introspection.

And still no words to rise within
my consciousness this day –
expressions of this tortured scribe
Must find another way.


Like my post? Please support me by clicking on the Mersi button

Mersi ME!

Torn Masculinity

There’s a solid
in my bones;
an emptiness that
won’t leave me
alone as i consider
choices i have made
in this
my life’s far too
noisy parade.

Is a man all
he is made out to be,
and if so
just who
must do the making?

Is a tear
drawn from some
remembered hurt
easily erased
as it draws its line
down across
his torn masculinity,
drawing his yesterdays
to a breaking?

Can it be
covered up
with a well writ poem
or drunk to
with any wine?