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.