Senecot.

When it dosen't flow,
When the Dam's backed up,
When the mind reels from constapation,

You find yourself wondering

Is this it?

Is this the time when the talent,
if any,
stops?

You'll never spill words upon the page again,
You'll never bleed out this raging torrent
of simile's, metaphor's and hard owrn
cliche's from the veins
and into exsistance.

Left forever to choke
like a hanging man
upon all these bitter emotions,
these moments of apathy,
these day's of euphoria
left to force the air
from your lungs
with no foreseeable outlet.

Your breathing becomes short, laboured,
the sweat from your forehead
start's dripping from your palms.

What if you've
nothing left too say?

What if you never did?

What if this sudden paralyasis
last's forever
leaving you blindly groping
for a justifaction
for your exsistance.

Dear God

what if you're
just normal.

Then the letters on the page
form into words,
the words fall into lines
and before you know it
you're back at the beginning.

The poems written
and the World is set to right's.

When it doesn't flow,
When the Dam's backed up,
When the mind reels from constapation,

A fearful ego
is the greatest
laxative of
all.

by Neil Gray

Comments (1)

Good Message. Thanks. :) Sincerely, Connie Webb