he stands there, dried up.
notepad on the floor, wet ink.
he wonders, how would it be, to stab myself
with this pen.
and then to go for a swim.
well, over there.
sitting, arms folded.
he writes some more. looks outward,
an ocean of ideas. of life. of
there is nothing left. it’s all there,
blurred now, and lost,
on the paper.
it’s not really about the writing,
he considers, it’s more about
how all those words look around each
more interested in the shape of things, than the
some thought about water, what was that? these
thoughts, turned virulent, turned into
a garden of unwanted weeds.
the fucking paper, there, right. over. there. the fucking aurora borealis
of the mind, the
flowering trees, the man yelling outside, the
beautiful seething world, the
endlessness and noise, the sound, the
thing he’s working out is:
where does this get me, and where did that get me
the untold words. his words.
they were never lost, it was their
creator who was lost.
all his life. all
he climbs up on the diving board, and
looks down, his soul before him,
a drained pool and that seething pen.