Writers Block.

i want to shake myself until all the words inside my throat come unstuck and find their way out of me one by one until one day all that's left of me and my confusion is just a mess on the sidewalk perhaps there is a worse fate than this and i think, at last. i am just a shell and maybe now i can crack and break and something winged and audible and full of hunger and wonder and trying on life for the first time and magic things that i want to set free but still they seem to be just out of reach of my fingertips and slippery beneath my feet the soles of which are numb from wandering too long in search of someone or some city maybe both i was convinced must exist in an answer to my question marks and some solution to the blank space that clouds my vision if i dare to look beyond the broken sandals i have worn thin to the asphalt burning just beyond inches outside my own lines it seems unlikely but so it is that no one exists in any zip code in the many that i've visited since i first tasted uncertainty tinny on my tongue like mercury maybe i wish i knew less than i do now about my own fatal flaws in character unflappable and able to make me inaudible sometimes with all the choking i keep doing lately and the corosive quality of what i keep from you and my best efforts to swallow whole lifetimes just burn like cheap whiskey or bourbon or so i've heard but couldn't care less to test the theory out myself only this is what i guess i have been getting at with all of this: i only leaked the random one thing i have been known to use within the world of sparingly and even some might add that i can drink with common sense but what you think of me now is just what i've left you with and all that's worth is sidewalk cracks and eggshells cracked open only this carton's contents have no life within just what could have been and isn't. and you'd be wrong to think this much of me and you should know this first before a rush to judge me fit to call myself a poet or not worth it perhaps, still know this about what i want to say is never what you wanted and maybe this is fun for a day or a break from reality a vacation from some outlined life plan you might have burned holes in from gripping it too many days in a row with tightly clenched fists and white knuckles raw with fighting your urge to just fly like the little bird in annie lennox's finest song ever go figure i said when i heard it was her who sang something not worthy of gunpowder explosions i'd love to unleash on everything involving the eurythmics but wait. i forgot where i was and so it goes with those of us who wander lost and unspoken for long enough to write some of it down just in time to sit down to the dinner table and serve ourselves more of what became of the bakers dozen that bore no life for some reason or none at all maybe chaos does make more sense than this thing they like to put your worst days in some drawer away to hide them with the whites and linens crisp and folded and manageable unscary and understandable they pat you on the head or back and patronize all you know in pores and dust that make up your proof that you exist and have a right to think beyond what little white lie never did sit quite right with me you know the one about design and sounds something like treason and betrayal of the part of my mind that knows better than to believe in things we can't see or breathe in or out and it sounds funny how 'everything happens for a reason' makes me go weak in the knees and curl up my fingertips to keep from reaching for new words and phrases i need to purge from me to make way for new ones and instead i feel like lead vests they make you wear for xrays at the dentist stretch my chest down to my calloused toes i can see but not feel so really it's why i like them more now when i put them to work and can really see how much walking away from the world that would say something in spite of my palpable misery like a cliche about reasons mysterious make me like myself better when i notice my feet unaware they are attached all the while to me it's like walking or running to nowhere from worse than that gives my feet purpose and makes me love something my blood runs right through despite feeling or something like it just ends at the achilles and tendons like this one make tourniquets out of extremities void of pain sensors and nerve endings frayed thanks to where i've been just before this break in the clouds maybe all the while who knows i could have been just circling like vultures do out here in death valley and annie would be lost for words to make light fluffy pop hits out of such things as i put left before right and keep eye level right by my big toe and take a load off my mind now that focus is back to black spots in my vision and all i can see is what i can't feel really and it's almost as good as just being a reader of nightmares or else i exist for a moment in the awareness of diversion... i wish i didn't know quite so much about silence and chaos and alone in third-person i like myself better with all the lights off and stuck to the wall like sticky tape fly traps and italian ice sticky fingers in winter out here it always is just me in the desert and i wish you could hear this tonight from below your big plate glass window maybe three time zones from now actually the sun is burning your face into cool sides of pillowcase but when you run out of those too maybe you'll slip a new one on for lack of ingenuity perhaps or maybe by design i fell in love with someone in first-person who mistook his feet for mine and i had no nice parting prize like i might have if i'd found the game show circuit the first time it would have been right only now i am old and slow to know and realize that i have the right answer to random questions and i just need something more like confidence and less of pats on my back with which you can keep in your bins of things to give to charity along with down coats we won't be needing here in hell on earth it seems safe to say, and whatever else in mind games and heart parts got beat to shit in packing quickly and suitcases bent them into half and creased they ripped all easily like parchment paper shredded left to blow in the breeze i remember when weather forecasts mattered more and sidewalks had cracks that paper like that could fall into and that was all just fine and commonplace at the time i think as i see the birds circling low but i know better than to think they must be smarter than me and can sense something sinister i already beat them to that forgone conclusion and i make no excuses for my feet because they still work and put distance between myself and what i know better than this.