Writer's Electrocution/Poetry

Writer’s Electrocution

Suppression underneath malice and a dead overhang-

How might I pick from

The jolly?

How might I find the ways,

To vent all of the electric,

The faint electrocution?

While barely existing-

Hanging by a thread,

Attached in slight to that overhang,

By a thread, a shred . . .

Attached very slightly,

With what we call hope.

I scream to the desert-

Around me,

For in my soul,

I know that these are dark ages.

But I can’t help, feeling completely riveted,

By my breathing.

The desert turns to ice glaciers,

And then to snowy wilderness,

And still, throughout this epic,

Climatic changing I breathe,

As a girl in a storybook,

Who undergoes the fancies of the pen,

Who lives through anything,

Immortal.

I can hear,

My breathing.

The pages of this notebook turn swiftly,

As with blood I write myself,

Through the good and black,

Through leaves of autumn, gold,

Landing crackles, of them underfoot as-

We- walk.

With the freshness of a,

Pumping heart I,

Let the blood flow,

For rite of my life.

And in my soul,

I write off those days.

Where can there be glad, jolly?

I hang here and scream-

With no ear here,

In winters barren,

Precipices.

There will be a downfall,

And ‘eeeeeeek!’

If spring is not written,

The thread I’ll-

No . . .

Springtime.