It's tight in the throat,
In the chest,
An annoyance driven so deeply it
Rotates like a rock behind your retina,
Turning the eloquent loops of black on white
Into the cold linoleum print sheet before you.

It seeps into your tears ducts,
Heating your eyes,
Locking your jaw,
Because all you want is to right it well,
And even that is too much to ask.

It itches on your fingertips,
Waiting to leap into your mind
From the diving boards of your hands,
Where it will saunter loftily,
Haughtily, around your head
Until it bears down like a 10 tonne brick
On the only eye you can see through.
The one you right with.

Often my knuckles whiten with my anger,
At myself for not getting it done,
And the lump of solidified skin
Stays with me,
To remind me steadily of how I failed.
The Pen won me over,
And left its mocking mark.

Even in typing,
When I know I will never meet the
Brutal bite of the Pen,
My fingers fly heavily from key to key
Punching delete accusingly.
I know I can do it,
I just don't know if i can do it write now.

It was supposed to be beautiful,
Or provocative,
Or at least interesting.
Not this waste of ink before you
These 20 minutes you really wish to have back.

Then eventually everything numbs
And you don't care about the words.
You don't care if write is right,
Or if right is write
Or if write is write or right or write or rite.
You've ritten them so many times they
May not be words anymore.

I'll do it tomorrow.