prosaic

words were sittin
on the tip
of this pit
forming below my lips
but they slipped
to fall back down,
drip dripping along the sides
slowly fillin up this pen I grip
where at least they fit
chip chipping away at this prison
dipping into the freedom of the
next line
fresh line
my best line
is always the hollow one
when all the mess
finally rests
below in emptiness
that is so full of potential
once kinetic I'll surely spoil it
it's what could be said
that is the treasure chest
now
I don't remember when I lost the map,
though, good riddance
for I find the most beauty in the blank silence
waiting in the distant night