Ink is Dead

hallow scratch of bleeding brains

trickle down through the scope

aimed carelessly along lines of white,

paper coffins crumple and litter

the floor of inspiration. but the heaps

of makeshift graveyards lasted longer

in those days and words were harder

to find and kill. but ink is fucking dead.

tomorrow I'll make red the blue jay

and fill his feathers with charcoal intent

and I will scrape the heart of trees

with passions' quiet rage and

crush the caskets of my thoughts and

litter the floor until there's a fucking

heap of poetry good enough to burn.