Writer’s Block Acoustic

107

I’ve been writing all day, trying
to find a phrase
that doesn’t need any formal wear and

my hands are twine, tying my eyes
wide. My cheeks are turning pink
like rabid dogs in heat.

I’ve been erasing all day, trying
to find out her name
that walks through scribbled out
smudging of me and

the walls are newsprint thin
like my sister when I was ten.
I don’t like it when they blink
or grin through filed down teeth.

I’ve been scratching all day, trying
to distract the peeling
and hauntings in my memory that walk
on backwards feet and

the words are reaching long fingers
through decomposing sheaths
with a neck that touches the ceiling
and casts a gray screen.

I’ve been writing all day, trying
to find a phrase
that doesn’t need any formal wear and