The sickness of writing is
how polluted you feel when
you can’t actually put words on the
page.
The words build up like bile in your word duct,
corrupting your moods
and jumbling your thoughts into
incoherent ramblings.
It’s a serious condition that can’t
always be remedied through conventional
means, nothing makes sense and everything
is so terribly banal.
There’s a steady drip of words leaking
from my brain, yet they don’t always
get as far as the page. They get muddled
in a cocktail of insecurity and anxiety.
It’s perverse that the only true cure
is to vomit up the collection of unused
words in a speckled puddle, swish it around
and see which words are the salve.
It’s also gross.
Like, ick, why would you use the imagery
of vomit to describe that?
Word Duct back up, that’s why.
There are so many levels to the sickness of
writing, it’s difficult to quantify them all.
The condition is dreadful and can’t be easily
soothed with some balm.
It’s only added to by the general frustrations
of living. I haven’t had a passionate kiss in
nearly a year. I haven’t felt the gaze of a lover or
the joy of expressing that intimacy in so long.
And it backs up the word duct something awful,
like you gotta get in there with a plumbing snake and
really root around to shake the words loose and
get something on the page.
Even if it’s nonsense, like most of this,
at least it is something plastering the page.
I vomited it up,
Now kiss me.
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