My field of good-nature is gone, chopped away
into memory. I try to make saplings from stumps
but this part of me is stubborn– won’t grow
back like gnawed nails on the twisted fingers
that snub out my ninth cigarette.
Head in the toilet, I come face to face
with how far I’ve fallen. This isn’t the pain
that sprouts great art. I wipe vomit from my mouth
and dig deeper in search of seedlings hidden
in this blank page. Finding them isn’t easy,
a broken cuticle scab stains the paper before the pen.
Though my words don’t flow like blood
down the hand, I persist, driven by visions
of my own vernal rebirth. Most days,
this dream is all I am.