pick up the pen
because the keys don't have it -
the fingers can't find the right
music; they can't dance,
so slash and stab
at the page in hope
the jellied gray mass
will reveal something, anything,
some sliver of decency,
a piece of hope
that something clean might yet
come from the endless slop
and drive you with verve
to the table at dawn
to release your heart,
to unburden it of truth,
and tell it like it is
in a form resembling coherence;
or maybe it is just
slop
that needs release
before the good stuff
can flow freely.
