First draft: pen to paper

Pen to paper

flowers bloom within me

I wish I could vomit bunches of daffodils for words and cry rivers and waterfalls worth of sonnets

instead I’m a dried River bed all cracked and dry

the life blood that I once supplied to the beds of greenery beside me have shriveled and fled

leaving me with just mud

dark and wet

it runs through my veins as if a constant reminder to the Gods of literature who bleed nothing but gold leafed calligraphy

of my place in their world

how no matter how much pain and suffering is spilled from this bed of a body

it will never be gazed upon by rightly scholars