Letters stream down my page
In serpentine fashion.
The characters combine
To form a matrix of thought
Soon to be distilled
Into something profound.
The pit of my stomach
Sprouts into a tree
Digging its roots
Into my groin.
I can't find my way home.
Home,
Where my inspiration has no boundaries.
Home,
Where I could benefit from my trauma.
Home,
Where thoughts bonded into strains of sentences
Taking on lives of themselves
And identifying themselves like chromosomes.
Months go by
And my voice remains muffled
By my high standards.
But,
It is only through
The perpetual motion
Of my writing implement
Gliding across azure plains,
Where thoughts can be fleshed out.
On many days,
I try to comprehend the possibilities
Of why the trees bear no stories,
Why the water,
Pulluted and black,
Fails to flow towards islands
Bearing the color of ice.
Why?
That is the eternal question.
As I write,
I know that the end is not near.
The story is far from over.
A new journey begins.
One that requires
A new source populated by muses.
I will chisel away at this writer's block,
Neglecting the pressure
Of my balanced levels of serotonin
Upon my talents.
I will succeed,
So long as the English language
Is my own.
This tale has not ended yet,
But there is still
Uneven pavement
To walk upon.
These bumps could be present
In my speech.
In my script.
In my spine.
In my sleep.
They too will be chiseled away,
And I shall brandish my chisel
With brute force
Until the rivers of nerves
Flow easy.
My first goal
Has already been met.
My last goal
Ceases to exist.

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