Digging Through Black
Each time, that I put pen to paper there must be some sort of fear, which bubbles up, and never wants to leave.
Each time, that I put my fingers to the typewriter things become all too suffocating, a cloak, and a shroud, and visuals, and things . . .
Every time, that my cold, sallow, tight fingers, hit these keys I must be- in shame.
For every time that I see my letters, I am struck by a shovel that is thrust at me. Then I hear the sound of digging. It is, my own sound. I had not known that it was my sound.
I must needs impress- that this is the sound of my life, or the desperate reaching for that way, deeply buried richness, through the rich, black, and beautiful Earth. I could not be deceived, could I, by the lovely shade of black?
Oh, but how I love the- lovely shade of black.
Lovely shades of black.
Lovely shades . . . of black.
Truly there can be no stopping the search for the richness. I need the richness.
My life is the chest, that is buried beneath the rich dirt. But that chest appears so crusty.
I write out my shame, for there is no stopping . . .
No stopping the sound of digging.
I am hiding from it all in the warm, black, and sparkling Earth. I am hiding from the sound . . .
of my own digging.
And I am still hearing it.
Always reaching, always pining for the chest . . .
And the black.
Softly fading away from these words to print myself.
Why should I put myself down here?
It is the sound of digging which I seek, but I hide from my dig-
I hide from me,
My shame is great, like the vast hole I’ve dug.
For I know that I am not digging for the chest.
I will make myself seek the chest, somehow.
People pass me by and I-
Sit here typing in fear.
Digging, digging, digging.
That is all I do . . .