I
wake up with pulsating green rage
Kick the blankets, take my pen and attack my page
Pen pours crimson venom across the white surface
Paper shrinks from acidic bite, leaving tattered and wrinkled space
My blood boils, nerves pump and it itches in every bone
Head pounds and lips burn for the microphone
From my stomach rises scalding bile
I pant and wheeze, though I haven’t walked a mile
Fists slam the hard concrete wall
Like an animal body feels trapped in a kraal
A poem captured and bound inside
Punching and kicking to break free and leap outside...
In My Room/Office/Studio
"A writer and nothing else: a man alone in a room with the English language, trying to get human feelings right." - John K. Hutchen.
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