Staring at a blank page is nothing new to me. The words rumble and turn in my head, flirting with my tongue and thus my fingertips. Burning holes in my heart from the hot, dripping ink expelling this shit out of me would help. Stuck, choked up in my throat the verbs don't want to move. Trying, and trying too hard to squeeze out just a little bit.
Wads of paper lay at my feet, frustration spattered on walls and floor. Closing my eyes i retreat. Let go and it flows freely, easily releasing these God awful demons. Manifesting upon the page before me, i tell a story. Ignoring the reasons why i shouldn't write, i do so obeying my rebellious side and confiding in all of you. A peace ensues from knowing that someone knows, even though they don't know me. Sometimes its lonely, only i don't mind when my poetry gets real soulful.
All i needed was a beat.