Writing Confessions

I have a pen in my clasp; 

A clasp that has nursed me 

Through several glasses of anxiety; 

A hold that wasn’t itself 

When it came to rescuing me 

From that well of slur I slipped into.

I want to write about it all.
I want the sheets of paper
To rehearse every note and syllable
of The Broth of Savages.
So that when they sing it,
They are torn asunder,
Much like the flesh the song’s about. 

I want that pen to capture 

Every despair and rapture
That refused to leave my side -
Come Rain, Sun, or high tide.



I want it all etched into neat little paragraphs
That wear suits woven from classy prose;
And I want those suits to sport seraphs
That hold their harps oh so close.

You see, the rendition has to look pretty;
Not a hint of a falsetto will do -
Even when a falsehood has to be told.
Not a sprinkle of tears will do,
Even when all that grit has to unfold.

Should any of it stain the piece
The way curry does a table cloth,
I’ll give the ensemble no peace
And refuse to feed it its broth.

I sat there all day,
And then let the day draw in the night.
But try as I might,
The pen wouldn’t get the job done;
For those stains it couldn’t disguise,
Nor sift those scars down a trombone. 

So I unclasped my hold on the pen 

And let it dive to its end:
Better the unfettered freedom of the awkward sublime
Than the lie of the bright lights not made for a bookend
That wipes the kitchen with the essence of true lime.