I write to weed.
My wordwept mind breathes less heavy.
No romantic Muse visitation.
It is functional.
Lumps form in the gnarled oyster of my mind.
Precious miracle stones.
If only the slime could be swallowed forever with an aphrodisiac smile and I was left Holding my armful of pearls.
But the clean mind would produce no pearls.
Sentences push themselves against the inside of my skull.
Those thoughts that strain beneath the floorboards.
Creaking in the night.
Sitting in sinister silence beneath skin and between bone.
Snapped syllables allow no truth to pass.
But I smile against the futility.
Enjoying fall-short words in their flow.