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.