At what point does the blank page
Become your mortal enemy –
Where the space between words
Screams louder than words themselves?
The same point as when your
Bottle is finally empty
You’re drinking lighter fluid
And watching the wallpaper dissolve
Nothing glamorous about writers block
Though it’s always soaked in booze
As if alcohol were the cure and answer
That curious yet coquettish dancer
Too much too soon you snooze you lose
Another morning with a tongue like a sock
Or a prematurely blunted pen
For are we not meant to tell and tell
again?
The bards of old through songs were told
Great loves, marriages and battles
Now words are written with print we are
smitten
We no longer sing, we prattle
Vital to the life of any language
Is hearing it openly spoken
It’s rhythm, cadence, timbre
Guttenberg did us a disservice
If the blank or printed page offend you
Speak your heart out loud
Sing as if your soul were a cathedral
Language is the teacher, we are the novice
© shaun patrick green 2014
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