Writing (An Exercise In Futility)

How many have written before me? 

               How many started so simply

with the love of the rhythm,  

               and the language typed?

Or scribbled away with no hope or faith 

that their persistence, or so-called talent 

would be recognized? 

Countless dead by

Neruda’s hands

Shakespeare’s ballads

Ginsberg’s Howl

cummings’ 

broken rules, and font

How do I dare demand 

these words be my

medium of expression?

I despise every stiff and brittle line

breaking beneath the weight

of self conscious doubt.

words
from veins
opened
to
     spill
         scribbled
across the page

i keep drinking my
ink i keep warm
beneath the weight
of that forementioned
doubt

i keep drinking my ink
it's not slaking my thirst
i keep pulling it in
this ink from my pen

i devour the words
hoping they come out again