The In Between Space

The field between my fingertip and the screen 

Is a reverse gravity 

A strong resistance. 

If there are words they are teetering upon written 

But remain as mere potential. 

If there are feelings they are unformed 

Amorphous

And dark.

Sometimes writing is worse 

Than wading 

Barefoot through a gator swamp 

Or a swarm of bees 

Or a cave of horrors. 

Instincts and actions 

Never seem to agree. 

They bicker and battle 

And melt into nothing

Into a sad paralysis. 

A low grade misery 

That permeates everything. 

And in the in between space 

Lives an insatiable dissatisfaction,

A disappointment at the core of me,

An arthritis of the soul.

In the field between finger and screen 

Is a desire to run the fuck away,

To kill my passion 

Before it kills me, 

Slowly, 

Dreadfully, 

Dead.

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