əˈflɪkʃ(ə)n

Stories get smothered by pain.

No matter which tale,

You are ready to tell,

There’s a hurt that can dissolve it.

A strike of agony waiting to chime,

An ache under unwritten cursive.

Songs choked on a migraine stone,

And poems struck by sciatic demons,

Sounds, words and sights,

All sublime in bright pockets of sense-defying numbness.

Everyday niggles that grind down the palette,

Shrinking the immensity of human creativity,

Making every thought

Small

And artless.

So think about all the worlds we could make,

If only we weren’t so afflicted.

.

© Accidental Tentacles 2017

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