There is nothing to writing.
All you do is sit down
at a typewriter
and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

crumpled pages,
ripped out leaving scarred
& shaven edges
biting the inside  cheek
over & over again
fingers dangling on strings
but never tap-dancing over
black keys
shadowed blinds slanting
fractured faces
milk stains peppering
the brown brew’s
surface,
skating triple axels
around synonyms
& similes
grinding gold from
gerund phrases,
raptured from
the winding staircase
of the mind by
focusing just long
enough
for teeth to sink
in and draw
back,
flinching with
the taste of
slowly, further
fading.