I wait, prepared, inviting if you will,
as blank as I can be to free your mind
from what distracts you as you seek to fill
my emptiness with symbols, line by line.
I know you call them words and hear them speak,
these symbols of the images within
your soul, your mind. Forgive me, I am weak
and single in my purpose. I am thin.
I wait to feel the scratch of something new
delivered by your hand and through your pen.
Compelled to take the marks, both false and true
and hold them for the eyes of other men.
I lie both still and flat in virgin white,
surrendered to your will in what you write.
I see you there in taunting nakedness,
your skin untouched as yet by any man,
aware of my discomfort, my distress;
I stare as if I thought you gave a damn.
Your silence mocks my hand as I attempt
to clothe you in the finest silks of thought,
if nothing else to cover your contempt
at all the lines of nothingness I’ve brought.
And yet at times I almost hear you sigh
as I begin to touch and to explain
the flow of conscious imagery I try
to coax to beauty, not, I hope in vain.
These words are precious children in my sight
created and conceived by what I write.