A mixture of crawling time
and heart-racing anxiety.
Trapped by obligation,
muted convictions,
penniless, stagnated imagination,
a black hole of thought
stuck will-nilly
like a centipede in sap.
No acetone can free me
as I pace the hallways,
unfinished work gnawing
at my cortex, imaginary
vacations teasing my temples,
injustices burning
from the inside out,
I stare down something.
So I turn to the page,
Reminding myself of great battles,
lost and found loves,
picaresque and profound
art, and I write
to shake it off
but mostly to forget
that I can never write of you.
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