Block

Trying to write poetry.
That's a laugh,
it's as if dragging my soul along the blank space
with a pencil or pen or emotionless buttons on my a keyboard
leaves me like a stubbed cigarette
between the sheets
leaving it's stink in my room.
The emptiness shifts,
to a place below my ribs, finding a home in fat.
The lighter days are illuminated
by my unwilling temperament
to learn the art
of conformity.

And I switch the keys,
move to a place, where I disgrace
my original melancholy
in the empty space
I jot,
I scribble,
I write
until fingers bleed
and my head concedes
it's half-decent
and the seeds in my mind
that I once again,
perhaps, enjoy
throwing my body
against the brick wall,
and take a fall
and play the fool
on a blank page
where the stage
leaves only me
under the burning light.