Bleed

I poke in dabs but never drip a drop

of worthy words. They’re either flat or pitched

so high they sound like teenage rage. They flop

in seas of wavy thoughts and points amiss

in imagery as though begot atop

a flight with opium’s guidance affixed

inside my brain and never hit the spot

I hope to bleed. I sorely need a kiss

from muses with subtle features not lost

in gaudy game to escape words that give

away the meaning leaving me the shame

of airy thoughts unfocused and untamed.

Critique

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