Writing My Way Out
May 16 2008


I am on the ground, kneeling,
wet earth under my nails
digging all the way down to China.

I am on death row, in an airless cell,
shovelling dirt with a spoon
furiously digging for freedom.

I am at my desk, over an empty page,
trying to write my way out
with words.

In the old days
they would gouge-out my eyes
for the sin of seeing the worst.
Or me, scrape away at my skin
desperate to get out the dirt.
Or drill down, deep inside
trying to find where it hurts.
This is compulsive,
like picking at a scab ‘til it bleeds
or that itch you scratch in your sleep,
but never really eases.

Words can be mischievous.
They stick to things,
like sharp little pricks
right on target.
Or like balm,
soothing open wounds
giving time enough to heal.
And the reader, pulling the bandage off,
with slow steady pain
or excruciating quickness.
Sometimes, it makes your skin crawl
just beneath the surface.
And sometimes, you feel numb.
And sometimes, it surprises you,
drawing blood.