My discarded pencil lies next to me
close enough that I can smell pencil shavings
and taste my failure,
but far enough that I can forget the task at hand for two minutes or so.
I stare down at pink flesh.
An eye as red as mine stares back,
imploring why I haven’t written anything in hours.
So many little juice pockets,
each one like an idea
just waiting to burst into fruition.
I ravenously shovel slice after slice into my mouth
as if vitamin C were fodder for creativity.
I imagine millions of little juice pockets in my mind,
exploding as my incisors rip through them,
releasing pent-up words.
I want to squeeze my brain and ring it out
letting juice drip onto the page, leaving delectable stains.
I can divine the words flowing from the page,
like juice from a peel made into a cup
I push the bowl away and stare down.
My page is as empty as rotting rinds.
The words of poet Tess Burkley have been seen on RASCAL before, but in a different time and in a different tone.
Read her poem “Cruda” here.