writers block productions

DESIRE&DESPERATION



Poems of Angst
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A tease, a terror is the world around me,
a table spread behind clear glass...
life behind the window with no opening.


The senses are full but rapidly leaking
and what I touch I am too porous to hold.
I am changed by the joy that slips through me,
alive with the hunger in its wake.


If I could
I would dissolve it in a glass and drink it.
If I could, roll it up in a neat little ball and
think it. But instead, bore a little hole in it and
sink it.
So why is it I who is
drowning.


Jogger from behind, she runs past me as if I am grass,
a leaf on the lawn, a stone
in the pavement beneath her feet to
beat, beat, beat,
beat.
She is a butterfly and I am
the net.


The sound remains like a ringing in the ear after a
gunshot.
The scene sticks to the roof of the soul like an
aftertaste.
The colors of mirage peel like old paint.
The wonder of the world is just
special effects.

-jwh-  



Redundant

Attempt

 

No more "to
be continued," this
daytime drama has
stretched the
plot toofar. With
the death of dreams, illusions it
is time to kill the dreamer (call Kevorkian) time
for the tragic flaw to
detonate. Find

a gun, a gun, the Yellow
Pages, no gun shops this city, gotta cross the
line, closed Wednesday, despration, can I break
in? Commit my sin before thealarm brings the
cops too late for guns but not for mops. Walking,

walking, looking for a
cure, back to
basics. Liquor
store, Walgreens, perfect
combination: liquor and
sleeping aids-- extra
strength, a
fifth of whiskey and
six boxes of pills, hoping that it
kills.


-jwh- 

The Morning after the Suicide Attempt

For a moment I forget, sun
shining, sky blue, tender breeze wafts
through, I
forget I expected to be
dead. My
eyes work, but not my
head. I
stutter, skin all red-streaked, splotchy,
every word in my brain scrambled like word
search, putty-legs, gelatin
legs, dead-weight, laws of gravity, blurry out of focus, stuttering, thoughts all in
splinters float like debris across my
brain, or is it my brain that's in pieces, it seems
I've killed everything but my capacity for
pain.