ďLaughingĒ by Walter W. Quinn III
A blank page sits before me,
Empty, itís lines taunting.
The pencil in my hand squirms,
Bending, refusing to write.
My clockís hands, all, a haunting
Reminder of my last fight.
Back then, my pen was with me,
A friend, forever to the end.
The paper moved with it, an aide
Without worry, smiling.
But together, used, I cannot now mend,
Not like a stained floor with new tiling.
The words I used, daggers
Cutting, slicing, unwinding
Once a true friend, now, only
A nearby pain or dispair.
Now, hereafter, everything is finding
Me gone, away, no good, not fair.
Thatís it, Iíve finished. Iíll take
No more, no more.
I force this worm to scrawl, just
Like a caveman savage.
Should not the regret be war,But the act, instead, ravage.