Heavy-Press Drift

Read the poem and interpret as you will.

Lost within your own frame
Ambivalent face, blurred till pale flush
Meets cotton
Finger the blanket, material cloying
Maternal yet,
Again sanctum for wind-swept
Thoughts, laurels unbreakable

Write what you know,
Speak what you see,
Never comes easily enough

Paralysis is lamenting future regret
Hide from the expense of trying - 
Not trying -
Sometimes
My chest overflows 
Into an unintended cup

Inhibition is the cold, crooked
Finger
Digging a hole through swollen bone.

Author's Note

Maybe a few empty words, but I tend to despise editing.

Reviews

[...]

. ah, excruciating ... yet ... strangely self-assured ... as any poet as exceptional as you might be ... "inhibition is" indeed ... "the cold, crooked finger" ... "digging a hole through swollen bone" ... brilliant expressions ...