Sick, Sick, Sick

Words are my trade
            Language is
                       My life.
But the words don't
     Come when called
                    They have
         To be torn from
My chest; even
           Then they're
      Fawns stumbling
Through the forest
                   Falling
              Down to the
Topsoil and exploding
                     Into nonsense.
Poeticism is lost on me,
         Rhymes and lines
Grow dimmer on
          This page until
The page itself loathes
        The ink.            While
I myself
      Loathe the process;
Loathe expression when
     The act kills
                 The dream.
                              When,
On paper, my thoughts
       Become absurd:
   Poetical gibberish
                 Regurgitated
In new forms
         As if
                      I am
Incapable of
                    Greatness.
                            Until
My nonsense
                      Becomes my
Sense.
                    My
Taste
  Touch
    Smell
      Sight and
        Noise.
 Does that make it
     Right? Does that
Make it good?

How can I find
             My voice
In this junkyard
               Of words?

How can I arrange
      The junk-dirt-
                       Trash
Into my own
            Masterpiece
That is, if there is
               Such a thing.