I search through catalogs of conscious

Ripping and Dragging

Foaming and Sweating

Hoping and Praying

For even the slightest bit of inspiration

Simple enough is it not?

To sit before a table and write

To wring you body until your soul seeps onto a page

A stream of thought lost in an ocean of shackles

I hope for something more to come

Sit and wait in horrid boredom

Still I rise to the seat as often as I may

Cutting and Slicing these forest until I am heard

I Scream for more time as the buzzer of agenda pulls me away

Perhaps my voice shall never be heard over the chorus

But that doesn't make its melody any less important