word riot

I find lately
I'm a little too stuck on blank pages left untouched by pen or thought
and not forgotten, but made to nag for fulfillment
like little daggers that stick my feet to the floor and trip me up when i try to sneak by another night without penning some existence into them
like shattered reflections incomplete and screaming for me to find the shards broken off and finish them
I'm afraid my journal will sneak off the table while I'm sleeping and gag me with wads of half-finished poems if i don't start to spend some more time in it
maybe my pen will revolt and run away, or so resent its existence of bare use that it stabs me blind when i finally pick it up, probably just to jot down a grocery list or a note for rolling papers and cigarettes
or perhaps the verses themselves will flee and leave my throat hollow and speech muted
run so far the speed of imagination couldn't keep up
trying to stay away from being used in a poem written about a poem not being written