Rough Draft (Poetry)

Why would I want to share a mess of words? —
Some random pile-up car crash wreck of thought
the blood-spill spreads its wastefulness — absurd
and pointless when the culprit lurks uncaught.

Time’s the thief who’s battered in glass doors
and syphoned off the energy to fight
his shadow my so-stubborn guard ignores
leaves only bones then melts into the night.

Long hours — unproductive — stand in line
the usual suspects lean against my wall
empty-faced — they show no earthly sign
they might reform — worth saving after all.

With age and loss both sides of the abyss
the bridge between half-rotted through with pain
each page a target but most arrows miss
for lack of a more concentrated aim.

A jumbled heap of trophies doubt would stuff
imperfect — too derivative or dumb
mere copy-art by nature’s not enough
when book shelves shake loose words are bound to run ...

and someone picks them off — a lucky shot
pins their claim for bounty — nails it dead
with faultless punctuation — on the dot
plus all that’s taken pretty much as read.

For words can prove such traitors to a man
cold killers or redeemers — black on white
each one insinuating what it can
or tucking truth perversely out of sight.

So, who would want to trust themselves to ink? —
since hunting words can overcook the brain
vocabulary’s more dangerous than you’d think
when tell-tale lines reveal they’re barely sane.