by Erin Cole

Created on: December 30, 2010

Trailing random thoughts,
the bloodhound circles,
incoherent words the unlucky prey.

Habituated pessimism
only feeds the frenzy,
but solitude with a pen
staves off the heavy gaze.

Paper blank, mind racing,
scribble worthiness or
tempt incisors of calamity
like ill-fated bait.

Ideas spark; pray for fluidity,
the worse of mental spasms
only taunts a grisly fate.

Or blaze the ink with
opulent exposé and revel in
the wild howl of warranted success.

Embark through the shaded jungle,
lunacy beware, for the wolf journeys
on the writer’s unrest.

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