congested quarrel

blunted pencil, bloody knuckles
words written again and
again. paper, wood,
walls, doors;
your canvas knows no
bounds.

on your way down the hall
in search of gauze
and higher enlightenment,
the glare of sticky red
on a glinting silver backdrop
catches your eye:
a mantra on the mirror
reminding you to take it
one breath, one muse, at a time.

but you blatantly ignore
your own advice, instead
listening to the voices that
cry out
in your head –
screaming for you
to write, draw,
create.

character profiles, portrait
palettes, and phantom poems beg
for the mercy of your attention;
slipping lace curtains away from
your bedroom window, you watch
the shadows of crows flit
over snowy lawns
and try to find
just
one
minute
of silence.

instead you find a
cacophony of sounds
and so
the window is shut and
stagnation ensues,
leaving you choking
on your own
pretentious
words.

shut in, the icicle
spiderwebs are creeping
toward the sill, and your
veins, your chest, your throat
are filled with the stories
of voices you can't control,
of people you can't put faces to,
so you splay your bruised, itching
fingers over the glass
and you close your eyes
and for once,
you let yourself
listen.