a thousand helpless pieces

boredom is...

that moment between

contemplating and creating

when nothing gels

for long nail-biting hours

and the hole wears thin

along that carpet path

in the artist's hiding place;

the midnight lamp sucks the last of its oil,

and then suddenly

a lightbulb flickers

its almost daylight,

the moon shatters bits of glass,

my window lies at my feet in

a thousand helpless pieces

windiness howls into the gaping space between

random articles of furniture, paper, skin and cartilage.

all is silent now,

-my heart skips a beat-

a pen finds its way between bedraggled fingers of my writer's hand,

and then it bleeds for me,

once again.