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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