Weight
By Andrew Garison
I.
The pen is heavy in my hand
Muscles straining, the nib hovering,
Hoping to strike the page, wanting
To cover the page with profound words
Compressed into verse, but
The barrier between my mind
And my hand
Is vast
Untraversable, save for the
Briefest of moments, when lightning
Slips into the bottle.
Call it inspiration striking (if you’re pretentious)
Call it a workplace hazard (if you’re in the business of words)
Everyone else merely calls it bullshit
And tells you to choose a new degree
II.
In the late-night hours
Moonlight bouncing off the blinds
Headphones cranked to deafening volumes
The pen is weightless
Ink flows freely, charged with my voice
Flying like sparks from a tesla coil
Mind and body work in sync
And I know who I am again.
No judgement can reach me here
Not even my own
III.
Sometimes I think I look like an artist
Sometimes I feel like one too
But I could just as easily
Be the one who pumps your gas
Or flips your burger
The one you spit on when
Your coffee is a degree too cold.
I could cut my hair
Remove the ring from my nose
And take the cubicle next to yours
Perception is the devil
And no one cares about the details.
Worldly apprehensions have
A way of catching up to me
Who I was, or who I want to be
(I can no longer tell)
Is no clearer than the chicken scratch
Adorning the page
The pen is heavy in my hand.
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