Milk and Ink

The Serial Writer

He pours words into the bowl,

lets them float together in the milk of meaning,

some dissolve too quickly,

some stay dry and uninspired no matter how long they soak.

A spoonful at a time—

some bites too big, some too small,

a soggy metaphor slides down his throat

and he wonders if it was ever worth writing at all.

He crunches a sentence between his teeth,

too literal,

too forced,

spits it back onto the page.

The words are getting mushy now,

blending into one another,

no crisp edges, no distinction.

He thought it would be satisfying,

but it’s just another half-eaten draft.