Sometimes you write in flow, the words
by Shreej k.c
which rumble and grumble, clutter and mutter
just refusing to stick to the note.
You gracefully accept and vow to erase
and you erase, the friction unwillingly seizing
the graphite once mingled effortlessly
with the papery fibers.
Airy words now wander carefree with rubbery dust
while you stand stagnantly staring at the blank
still reading the story out of faint mark left behind,
wetting and drying ad nauseum with burning tear,
hardly though the residuum and phantom weather.
Worst is when they keep handing you branded pens
coax you to write a story different, deride your folly
as you throw them one by one in the trash can.
Elite, they may be but you do not long to gaze
at the diamond and gold splattered over your page
nor do you expect anymore the mean and laconic
graphite flying high would land to restore the erased.
You just hold a pen,
hands shaking, body sweating
heart pounding, pulse bounding
eyes blurry yet sight starry enough to still
show those subtle, once endearing imprints.
Are you to overwrite them?
You spin, you nearly swoon
You keep rubbing, rubbing harder
till you leave yourself torn?
Oh, why can't they leave alone
the specious blank page and you.