Like Dead Rivers

They
ache to be released
{and beg to be
erased.}

The words that
hardly flow
coherently.

I wish I could
sketch portraits of
butterflies
and string together
melodies written
in black ink.

I cant
scream
melodies anymore,
my voice is going hoarse
from repeated failures.

They run bone dry
like
dead rivers.

The words,
splatter
upon the wrinkled canvas
and stare blankly
at the wall
as I
try to scratch the paint away.

Smearing mistakes
onto my fingers
and all over my
pretty white dress.

And they ache.

The words.

They beg
to be released.