Writer's Electrocution

A writer's rise and fall- a life, that's hanging by a thread of sheer nothing. Can she bring herself out? What the pen may accomplish, what it may save, and what it can destruct.

Writer’s Electrocution

 

 

Suppression underneath malice and a dead overhang-

How might I pick from

The jolly?

 

How might I find the ways,

To vent all of the electric,

The faint electrocution?

 

While barely existing-

Hanging by a thread,

Attached in slight to that overhang,

By a thread, a shred . . .

Attached very slightly,

With what we call hope.

 

I scream to the desert-

Around me,

For in my soul,

I know that these are dark ages.

 

But I can’t help, feeling completely riveted,

By my breathing.

 

The desert turns to ice glaciers,

And then to snowy wilderness,

And still, throughout this epic,

Climatic changing I breathe,

As a girl in a storybook,

Who undergoes the fancies of the pen,

Who lives through anything,

Immortal.

 

I can hear,

My breathing.

 

The pages of this notebook turn swiftly,

As with blood I write myself,

Through the good and black,

Through leaves of autumn, gold,

Landing crackles, of them underfoot as-

We- walk.

 

With the freshness of a,

Pumping heart I,

Let the blood flow,

For rite of my life.

And in my soul,

I write off those days.

 

Where can there be glad, jolly?

 

I hang here and scream-

With no ear here,

In winters barren,

Precipices.

 

There will be a downfall,

And ‘eeeeeeek!’

 

If spring is not written,

The thread I’ll-

 

No . . .

 

 

Springtime.