he's staring blankly into space.
a godless, raging writer's fury.
it's type, cringe, and backspace.
a melting in his mind kin to mercury.
and then there's flashes of desperation,
in this deep dark hole of frustration,
and the only way of expression,
is through act and intention!
because the mind and what's beneath,
wants only a brief innervating release.
and in the absence of sense and of meaning,
are bloodied lips and muted moonlight screaming.
his white knuckled war,
between what's fact and what's fiction.