My fingers tumble over each other
When I try to play with words, sometimes,
And get tangled up in their fleshy boniness
Much to my frustration.
It happens a bit too frequently now,
And the words I want
Don’t dance on the screen
But stay locked inside
The six dimensions of the dark,
Dull, damp caverns of my mind
That keeps on generating more and more
That choke, rot and die in it because
There is no way out.
Sweet suppositions and delirious dreams
For my feeble fingers aren’t the architects
Of my ambition.