It Spills Out

This is just about writer's block and how much I suck at writing

The scratching of pencil on paper is comforting,
the rhythm is irregular.
Writing a single word takes me days,
mistakes are often made
but  I don’t erase them,
I like the way imperfections look.

The letters start to overlap
like the taurine molecules in my bladder,
my energies crash without a focus.
I invent portmanteaus
with words that don’t blend.
Metaphimilies cannot exist by definition
but my art does not restrict.
I paint the page with 8-legged ink
and admire work that can hang on the wall
and never be finished.