Writer's blackhole

I pick up my pen, as I laugh off writer's block,
I'll continue to write, if it makes sense or not,
I don't follow along, I prefer to lead the pack,
while others get stuck,
I continue to write and never look back.

Quick, someone call a paramedic,
he's bleeding ink all over the place,
and his writing has terrible aesthetics!
Syntactically incorrect, his writing is a mess,
someone do something quick,
before something happens to the alphabet.
Back writing again, just can't get enough,
these words are my love,
always random off the cuff,
rough,
all around the edges,
making absolutely no sense,
is one of my primary intentions.
Pen in one hand, paper in the other,
comforting,
like the bosom of a mother,
smother,
me,
all I can see,
is the world made of words,
singing to me linguistically.

It's an obsession,
some call me permanently demented,
I've lost all senses,
I don't know where this write starts, or the last one ended,
unrelenting,
I've just got too much to say,
I go through rainforests of paper to your utter dismay,
I take my wildest imaginations and put them on public display,
I'm all over the map,
some call me full 'spektrum',
I write about anything,
and am uncontrollably relentless,
senseless,
I must repent,
my words are so out of character,
there aren't any sins left.

oh no!,
where'd the hours go?,
swallowed,
by the writing black hole,
anticipation,
of another write complete,
three verses in front of me,
I can already see,
I get ahead of myself,
I'm not even done this rhyme,
and in my heart I'm already done my next write,
and it will be divine,
because when I'm writing,
I know I'm still alive.

© Steve Bertrand aka. stevieb 20110904