As I scratch-scritch-scratch, the paper – my draft -
Takes on the scene of a battlefield: a word bombed there,
A whole sentence taken out there. My scratches get deeper
and broader and pierce the paper at times.
I mumble to myself, pull my hair, slake my thirst,
Drag the pencil across my teeth, and rant at the scene before me.
Out, out – no, that’s good, stay stay.
If at the end, I can locate my sanity,
It would have been worth the battle.