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Of Cramped Hands and Writer's Block

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strained smiles and forced laughs
yellow teeth pulsing and chattering breath
deep inhales in and out, frozen internally (eternally?),
limp cheeks aching, laughter that sounds bad even to my own ears.

downpour is gone.

of dried springs and empty brains
nothing stirs but dust and mice carrying forgotten parcels
skitter and titter quietly as if to point fingers (hooked claws?)
they squeak with laughter and
i (me?) am ashamed.
­
the springs elsewhere are restless and take pleasure in tormenting me.

forgotten creativity and a lack of rain,
forcing myself to storm and this time only tears fall
instead of the pure essence of the soul,
the rifts in my brain shift and wriggle like gaunt snakes
waiting for their snacks.

downpour is to come.

though there only lays mud where i walk
i spread myself out on the ground
the crackled dried earth supporting me (me supporting it?)
slowly dragging my parasol i
open my mouth and brace my body for the storm.

downpour is now.

when it comes, it floods me to the tips of my hands (fingers?)
i feel myself becoming one with me
the mud earth becoming speckled with small tears and then
the weight pulls and pushes
i am made aware of this sudden burst
something held back for so long
the itch in my throat, the pain in my back
the unquenchable thirst i am reminded of daily
the beast growls, rumbles, shakes, but i
am not afraid
instead i crave it
i crave this bestiality once again, this force of human nature

i give to myself, i receive from myself.

i wade up to my boots in mucky creativity
the frozen rivers thawed and melting
i receive this sunshine with gratitude.



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