There are pencil shavings on the floor

where I missed the bin

and there they will stay until my penance is over,

the same can be whispered for the remains of a rubber,

quietly judging me, assuming superiority

and remarking upon

the desperation, the vile responsibility placed upon my shoulders

as I hunch over a plastic typewriter,

plastic keys, plastic words, plastic hack

and I wish the pencils would sharpen

themselves and the rubber erase itself

out of existence…

 

…for in their world I am trapped,

I am forever caged and mutilated,

I scar myself and scratch out upon my wrists

the answers to questions posed to me by passers by

and even before I have the courage

to open my mouth

and tell them No, this is wrong,

the marks have congealed and transformed

themselves, they have drawn in flies

attracted by the scent of drowning meat

and with the evidence of slaughter through the heart

as the quill dries slowly and without passion.

 

Find me a rubber, find me the sharpened pencil,

for there is disease in me

that wishes to be blotted out.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015