Writer’s Quarrel

Marrow churning

In these bones.

Cannot write when I’m

Alone.

Future days always

Ticking. Cannot find

That phrase worth

Itching.

Remind me how I

Shall write.

Sentence swirls with bits of

Bites.

Empty fear set to

Eleven.

Can’t take these words up to

Heaven.

Pull this curse from my

Hands.

And throw my pens into the

Sand.

Flaming paper left

Behind.

Writers always

Lose their

Minds.