Good Writer

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She makes me angry.

Who can cut an edge finer than that?

Every word; my visceral heaven,

I eat them raw, to the hilt.

 

Who puts poems on screens anyway?

A digital mist; pixelated lake.

She lays hers on thick, linen sheets,

I press them like wax under flame, and she’s

 

Possessed me.

She knows she burns;

The nightmares, the sacred.

I’ll come back, crawling and spent.

 

The strike of her pen,

The creak of my heart.

Every page drowns me,

Her ink dredged revenge.

 

© Angela Bigler 2013

 

photo credit: Roger Smith via photopin cc