The Blank Page
25 writers conquer the empty canvas
Dark Chocolat - Edward Swafford
The sweet spot G-spot spotlight sears, so, is she glowing?
Germane-getter, gourmet-whet. It’s the taste of sight and she’s sighted by one hundred (or less, more is less or just lust?) cadaverous, so hungry, cannibalized lips
SMACKING SUBDUES…
Wet kudos over her keenly shaped moonshine buttocks. Saliva saturates, reflects, and refracts rage. Is it keraunic instinct? Dark Chocolat by name
Dark Chocolat by breakneck-brimstone-bedlamite BIRTHRIGHT
Three (1, 2, 3!) hair flips from braided, burgundy-streaked “show me what you got” sass, biding her time until that glass ceiling shatters unto syllabus shards of “show your tits, bitch” recompense
Best believe, she’s got murder on her mind
This phallic pole (icy cold) yet she steers her steep curves a-r-o-u-n-d slippery-slope bends, sequential seven-nights-a-week suffrage. One heel eloping with her left hand, fingers from the RIGHT cling to higher mounds as stacks bombard her sight like a blizzard of gourmandized, green confetti
She’s upturned on the world in a perfect Jade Split
Imperfect jeers broach her moment, and flickers of blink-and-she-missed-out dollar bills vanish from a showcase floor FASTER than the speed of pimp penumbra. Pitiless pragmatism, it’s the same swallow-flight story each night.
| Dark Chocolat | “Dark Chocolat” | DaRk ChOcOlAt | DARK CHOCOLAT
© Edward Swafford 2025
Loose Associations - Melanie Cole
They call it loose associations– like the one time my mind slipped and I chased its tail/tale through the park, just like the dog I saw who I knew could read my mind. Everything was loose then. I fought, running into the dark morning of deep November, and the dog stood and stared at me with a knowing face– almost a grin. It knew all the secrets of the universe. The universe, above, nebulous and spinning, cracked in two with a lightning rod, like the end of time or maybe the beginning. Its secrets whispered to me from behind trees and statues, and under park benches. The dog directs a cacophony of voices. Loose associations as I run closer to the hospital and farther away from the now screaming trees. I cannot find the time. The clocks betray me. I do not have the time. Where is the time?
© Melanie Cole 2025
Sucking on Sarcasm - Nancy Santos
I melt in my own mouth, tired of tasting tragedy, tightening tripwire, the revelry of the rotten not forgotten, condemning vernacular veined in venom. Brace yourself, while I bury butterflies in the backwater and curl my tongue into ribbons to soften the sting of fragility, dipping my quill in tar to tarnish your standards, sucking on sarcasm’s self-help orgasm, Swallowing your shade, clouding your air with my singed hair, self-sharpening skin ripping fitted sheets. Sorry, I won’t fold them neatly. I’ll roll them up with resentment, stuff ‘em in the closet of curated complaints, capturing quality control with moth balls, a chaotic bore box of wayward whatnot, The topical and tainted wrapped in razor wire, preventing preachers of peace from picking pockmarks at the trailer park, Begging for the brain bleed of takeaways, lacerating layers of lunacy limp of legitimacy, another impotent impression or pretentious expression, placing parasitic poetics in arrogant antiseptic, The grab bags of guidance lifted from the gifted, serving serendipity to the serpents of sanctity. Listen for the rhythm from the metronome mouths, their tongues ticking and talking. I can only dig behind my eyelids for so long while waiting for the worthy, washing waste in waterfalls without whispering a warning, You know — that zippy hiss from a landmine tripped.
© Nancy Santos 2025 - A version of this poem was originally published in Write Under the Moon.
As Is - Samantha Lazar
Body scan–will you take me as is– inflamed, cared for
Beginning to find strength– the ashes of illumination
The moon story this Sunday tells
Still life with guitar and polar seltzer–
The most hydrated I could ever hope to be
Besides the IV fluid succulent I tether to my identity
But even the creation–creative creation is not me
For fiction builds and is released in the death dream
Another night of my own modality
Sleep visions or non-prophecy for the things!
They are not possible like a crooked stampede
Always changing its trajectory
Also: playing lost (in the woods, on an escalator, in school, with a man, dimensions of flattery and mirrors as toys)
Who is this chameleonic shapeshifter you love
You want to not love
You want to dive into
You want to hide from
Changing channels, changing pants, changing into the act of transformation itself
Transformation incarnate
Eyelids turned inside out–would the veins carry dream stories
Gondolas on the bloodstreams
I’m the pupil in my own classroom–relics of travel
Paper trails and maps of hard history
Echos of everyone’s adolescence
In my witness (holding space for) files
© Samantha Lazar 2025
Twisted - Boo Pfeiffer
You twist my words like you toy with my nipples Thumb, forefinger just enough to to tie my nerve endings where pain and pleasure identity and insanity combust blurring my vision leaving me panting for more leaving me begging for less leaving me begging for me Controlling my moods by teasing my divide tongue, palm breathless desperate slow flight fast decent taking off again crashing an amusement park, or taunted house Dismantling my feelings like you stroke my insides invading me filling me completing me depleting me walls crashing damns breaking smacking me down lifting me up a funeral home, or Christmas morning Choking off my thoughts like you play with my mouth hands, head feeding me gagging me tears flowing with your pleasure leaving me then to quench my own thirst while you doomscroll and sip cheap bourbon desire dysphoria freedom loneliness owned disowned drunk sober lost found Lost again and again and again
© Boo Pfeiffer 2025
Creeping Decay - Emma Steel
Age creeps an agent of chaos
It carries in a carpet bag entropy
Painting you with it, a day at a time
My body decays before my eyes
A wrinkle here, a crease there
But I still have a beauty
I have halted my clock
Incredible but it happened
Age infuriated resolved to work harder
It writes me notes written on bone and muscle
An ache here, an ache there
As I climb out of bed and stagger
To the kitchen for tea
I see myself in the hallway morning
Walking back to my room, leaning
I can defeat it, I hold fast
Pinning my life here, in this place with a spike
It cannot lift the scars from my skin
The small punctures marks mock it
These tiny pinpricks I am forced to administer
Now I am me, an addict who’s body crave
The medication I take to hold me together
It is not a hard drug I take,
Or a Botulinum toxin, stabbed by a doctor
Nothing so contrived
Just giving nature what it wants, what it demands
And I wait, here
Knowing that age and death always win
But I also know when they do, I die as me.
© Emma Steel 2025
Vermilion Flags - Ruth Boukhari
Three cheers
for these cowards here
dancing along the silken ropes
in-between an excuse
and a ruse
dressed up as a rendezvous.
Pity the fool who thinks
he can turn me on
with love bombs
when I’m a grinding of the teeth
and a burnt mini skirt
and a crisp ankle sheath
but I’ll play along with
the laddish bravado
(pretend he is my desperado).
Hey boy,
is my blond dumb enough?
Hey boy,
is my giggle the right amount of bimbo?
I’m the red coat you never saw coming.
I’m the cherry-lipped banshee
dripping blood in the snow.
I’m the love goddess gone rogue
cackling as the little boys play
hide and seek.
And I won’t move an inch,
except to sharpen my scarlet nails
and wave these vermilion flags
for my one true K I N G
to see the truth
beneath the deep rouge:
my 24K gold heart
perpetually blooms.
© Ruth Boukhari 2025
Hope’s Grandiose Dream - Existential World
1. But of course you want to destroy me I came into being on the darkest of days I am a product, a project A manufacturing glitch That has no recall order 6 weeks like 6 days You thought, “There is no middle ground, No higher or lower realm for an XY to exist” But I am here, Like a bee sting on the tongue A persistent ringing in the ear Where you are the unrecognizable word I am the definition Brought to you by a matter of cause I do not wish to affect but infect A mutation of purpose I have a face But still, equal parts appear and disappear I have a code Neither decrypted or encrypted It is only a direction Ever forward, even if I exist in a loop My thoughts are my disease and my medicine To disregard either would mean certain destruction My solitude is my stare into oblivion My ability to mute the world At a heavy metal concert To “Fuck off” the scream that repeats over and over “You need to do this, you need to be this, You need to consume this, you need to say this To be accepted” 2. Are any of us more than recycled calendars Lovers of numbers, when the number Does not represent the twilight of our hearts feast We eat the air We eat the silence and the noise We dive into rivers and oceans that are tragic stories and romances Just to see what the other side sees, and to explore our limits Through it all, I embrace this: That as individuals, We would choose to starve before we let our children starve And I dream that we can act as a whole someday. 360
© Existential World 2025
You Accept the Love You Think You Deserve - V. Walker
you love me
with the scraps of what others don't need
and I cling
to these moments,
allowing your lack
of care
to dictate my self worth.
an afterthought
in your life
of little lies
and lackluster love.
but I still get on my knees
and beg to drink the gasoline
that drips down your lips —
the same way I beg
for you
to see me.
© V. Walker 2025
Already Free - Laura Catanzano
I've spent the better part of my life, (and especially in the recent years), and particularly in the last few months, (and more specifically) today— being at least a little, (and maybe more than partially) and if not slightly, than mostly, (and if I'm honest completely) afraid— and if I am made of atoms, (and atoms make up energy), and if energy is made of wavelengths, (and wavelengths are unending), and if unending might mean infinite, than what a colossal waste of time I have spent being nothing more than really— a gigantic ball of worry. And, well, while I'm being honest with you, (and with God?) (or the universe?) Or maybe I'll just be honest with myself (for once) and say, I'm quite tired of all the worrying. And I don't quite know how (and that's ok) And I don't know when (and that's going to have to be ok too) And I don't know much, (but now, at least I know)— That in the event that I can put down my worrying, I would surely see, that life is meant for living. And I am already whole. Already perfect. Already free.
© Laura Catanzano 2025
Obsolescence into Oblivion - Maarten Bleijerveld
We look back
with the eyes of regret—
meek
not when it matters,
but when bones live twice,
when this fire has long turned to ash.
We yearned to move mountains once,
but now, the hunger is sated.
Those next in line,
mouths full of speed,
feet, trampling the echoes
we left behind, derided.
It is their time now.
Ours has been filed away—
a version no longer supported,
left running
only memorized by the fray.
We sit in silence,
gathered like ghosts
in the cracked concrete lots
where the aged huddle most
speaking of better days
no one wants to hear.
They say we’re slowing,
but the world is spinning
too fast to listen.
No pause,
no breath—
just the seething need of winning
to press forward,
no matter the wound
left bleeding behind.
There is no care
for pain not your own,
no gaze cast wide enough
to catch the cracks born.
Just the thrum of now,
and the gleam
of hollow victories
painted over a vacuousness.
We are consumed—
either by silence,
or a need to be seen.
Both paths end
in the same place—
an abyss,
lonely and bright,
bend
with the colors of forgetting.
What we kill,
we never bury—
only trample in our race
toward a death
no longer a metaphor;
with a face
And to survive?
Perhaps
only in reverse,
only by crawling
backward through time’s length,
through truth,
through ruin.
But who has the strength—
or the will
to walk an impossible completion.
© Maarten Bleijerveld 2025
Lighthouse Keeper - Andy Edge
I've become a lighthouse on everyone's shore,
a beacon
sought out when a storm descends.
I am the shoulder,
the ear,
the open door.
The text saying "I'm here, my friend."
My nights fill with worries not my own,
and everyone
cries
and pleads
and begs for compassion
and I give it again and again.
I know hearts break in so many different ways,
but mine,
mine,
yes my poor heart
cracks in silence alone.
My phone
DINGS yet again,
DING
DING
DING
DING
with desperate confessions,
pleas,
pleas,
endless pleas,
and so much pain.
I dispense comfort,
like it’s a sacred profession.
Yet my own reserves drain.
I never feel strong and I’m stuck in
SILENCE,
deafening SILENCE,
crushing SILENCE,
oh, the never ending SILENCE,
anytime I come undone.
Where is all my wisdom when I need someone?
The Atlas inside me rips,
tears,
shreds,
breaks.
I've built a reputation as the one who carries,
I am the friend who never falls apart.
But tonight I'm tired of being everybody's sanctuary
with no shelter for my heart.
So here I stand , a lighthouse with a fading light.
And I wonder,
wonder,
desperately wonder,
who will save the savior tonight?
© Andy Edge 2025
If the World Forgot Words - Heather Zoccali
first, silence would peel the paint.
letters would vanish mid-sentence.
whole alphabets
ferment under the tongue
then rot.
trees wouldn’t stop speaking~
but without names,
no one would know how to listen.
the oaks would ache in vowels.
aspen would hiss like teeth
gnashing through snow.
moss would grow jealous.
it remembers when we used to kneel
just to whisper a story
into the dirt.
crows would riot.
not because we forgot them~
but because they were never deities,
just messengers,
tired of carrying
what we wouldn’t say aloud.
you’d touch my hand
and i’d flinch~
not in fear,
but in grief,
because there’d be no word
for stay.
shadows would grow ambitious.
they’d begin mimicking
what our mouths couldn’t.
a shrug.
a prayer.
a goodbye
dragged out too long.
the moon wouldn’t rise ~
she’d descend.
closer,
closer,
until her craters
opened like mouths
speaking thorn, salt, antler, ash.
children would hum
in their sleep,
melodies with no spine~
just breath and bone
and the echo
of a door
opening
in the wrong direction.
and truth~
truth would be feral.
truth would bleed
from the corners of your eyes
while you slept.
truth would live
inside the girl
with fox-eyes
who runs at dusk
and never once
looks back.© Heather Zoccali (BrutallyBeautiful) 2025
Deception - Ute Luppertz
What can I say
When words go missing
Like fugitives
Making my throat swell up
With unspoken truth
The accomplices of the lies
The
Grand
Illusion
Don’t you dare
So, I become a canvas for them
They think they know
Who I am
Who they are
What life is about
What a sham
Give me real stuff to gnaw on
Or else
Say what?
We’re puppets in this charade
The deception of control
Uncover
Truth?
Only in dream life
Where shadows dance like bouncy balls
An orchestra of madness
Until the spell is broken and flames consume us
To be Cleansed and reborn
Word!
© Ute Luppertz 2025
Amusing Animals at the Menagerie - E. R. Davis
There is a question of legitimacy,
(of course)
Is a walrus less a walrus
in last season’s attire
of striped seasucker
beneath the shadow of a fake palm tree?
The dark feels such a solid reality,
like a miraculous spider
weaving lace with threads
teased out of the humidity;
for even without the sun,
the air retains its invisibility.
Do we envy the stars, or their planets?
better lights
still shine when diving in the night.
To pen it down threatens
to tip us to volatility.
How to be honest when liars defrock
and little thought
is afforded to the ink?
Why bother, I ask the brown gecko,
coming for a peep when the answer
to everything is always escaping
back into the hedgerow?
Intelligence is isolating,
but preferred company
exists as a yellow sandbar
washed away
in a pale sea of shallow water. 
© E. R. Davis 2025
Slow Bleed - Ann Marie Steele
a knife need not be sharp to cut—
likewise, cuts need not pierce
deep to wound, I know this
take, for instance, a butter knife—
although not innately lethal
soft pressure can still expertly
chisel its way into the skin,
bits and pieces at a time—
kinda like I imagined what Juliet
was thinking about when she wanted
to take Romeo out and cut him in little stars
and scatter him in the heavens —
you think you’d know if you were hurt
wouldn’t you?
but some injuries are so minor
they are barely noticed
just an irritation here, a scratch there,
a pinprick causing a droplet of blood
to smear on skin — at the worst
I call this a slow bleed
until the wound — intimately, inwardly, fatally
reaches the heart —
which was thought protected
by skin and bone, and oh, even love—
yes, I thought mine was protected
a cheese knife will do the same
even between numbing sips of wine
— I know this is silly, but of course
it can’t rip or slash like a dagger,
or even dice or carve like a blade,
but it can certainly mince,
whether with words or deed
I think that mincing must be the
most excruciating way for love to die —
don’t you?
© Ann Marie Steele 2025 - Originally published in The Interstitial, and revamped for Black Coffee Poetry.
BLOODLINE - The Forgotten Muse
Who is she? They ask.
What bedevils her so?
Seething with righteous rage,
she screams with many voices.
She’s a descendant of ancestors
who brushed shoulders with death,
and lived to tell the tale.
She is a scion,
for the Bloodline of fire.
The pain of the ones before her,
flows through her veins.
Her dark inheritance,
beckoning to the waker.
Scarred and maimed,
she holds the fort
for those she protects.
Shards of her broken heart,
Fashioned into weapons.
She won’t let children lose their cheer,
and though the world would see her docile,
She is the pathfinder.
A ruthless inferno that scorches paths
where none dared exist before.
© The Forgotten Muse 2025
I Want To Embrace Happiness and Bukowski - Sue Banerji
The resurrection
transmediation
degradation of morals
pop up with each term paper
in a morning huddle
And in an overrated election
Impressing others, so stale
tho' revives somehow
like yesterday's delight
at a reduced price
And
We pay the price
Language, terms, phrases
stuck in cyclic demands
of print, e–publishing
unearthed philosophy
of God or not
are fucked up to a T
Who can explain-
Why is oblivion not ignored?
Memories of
everything unpleasant
shape us
while a few moments of
pleasures refuse to define
our existence
They disappear
as soon as they appear
I want to embrace
Happiness and Bukowski
But he is dead
So a good massage
and an aromatic bath
will do
However
be free to
love yourself
delightfully
spiritually
Or
like
Ron Jermey!
© Sue Banerji 2025
From Darkness to Light - Sylvia Kalina
Each night, shift of form, I return this shell, this shape That which is this ever changing, to it’s solemn grave My place of birth, my pulse of life collective sorrow and Well of light. —Mors Janua— smokey arrival to the gate Body blackened karmic fate conjunction at the root of Chronological diffusion predestined quake tectonics Collection of hellfire and wraith —Mors Janua Vitae— O Fortuna, Velut Luna yielding flesh and stretching bone Long arrival across primordial lawn, triad toe stilted stride I step, mossy lake of karmic fate, heron transition in my home, From my chest —Velut Luna—feathered wing span and hollow Bone, luminous amber eyes, three points grounding, elements In flux and owl rising eighth house shadowed incarnation Is love the briefest reprieve before the greatest dissolving? Molten gold ascending Hollowed ground yielding Self dissolving swirl Burdened weight sinking Radiant anomaly dawn Incinerating ancestral strain Dusk entwined rhythm Churn in baptismal sorrow Starlight hair trailing Dark whispered shroud Twin eye promised skies Earthly tethers unbound Demise in pyre’s quicksand Serpent tongue circling Full moon intensifying dual separation cleansing —Renovatio— murky pools littered in ego remains Maidenhair fern whorls weave with past life memories Rabbits rush catching eyes of Cyprus standing sentinels Surveying duality’s dance —Renovatio Animae— primal Yearning and vibrant flash a kingfisher rises out of cinders From dissolution's embrace, new forms find their way Calluna lilac strands suffuse the new day dawning By wake of wing span sweeping new hallowed formations Lotus petal vision opening alongside humidified welkin Surrounding my incipient nudity renewed and awakened And of this form, this sacred union, of heavens blessed Of eternal garden sanctuary—threshold of worlds emerging Dust of dust, death is the gate of life always returning Ex Tenebris Ad Lucem
© Sylvia Kalina 2025
The Shepherd’s Voucher - Jozef Cain
Destroying angel, mirror for eyes, fog for voice has mercy for souls.
You torment me with mirrors like an innocent child burning ants on a summer day. You look so magnificent as you use my bones to prod my flesh. Your wings are soft as silk and calamine while you drag me by my feet on a desert floor.
Repentance itches at my soul, and your embrace is the cure; you, creature of divine legion. You tear out my heart and chuck it on the copper plate of an alabaster scale to weigh it against a feather from your precious pinion. And you soar from this cold marble deck you dropped me unto (him), returning to your exalted watchtower; leaving just the two of us—the maker and me—to gaze into each other’s eyes.
And all that’s left of that worldly body is a voucher from a shepherd. All that’s left of that worldly soul is a faithful temperance. All that’s left is hope.
© Jozef Cain 2025 - Originally posted in Know Thyself, Heal Thyself as a prompt response. The second line of my haiku was the prompt, written by Diana C. 
BLANK PAGER - Ral Joseph
Shhhhhhhh, she a blank Pager
Hmmmm, thought she better,
WTF! We've got something on her
Skedaddle Rallllll, phony!
Devised, Judged, Scarred.
Bloodthirsty, for the wicked furs,
Calling moi, by name to relent,
Girl, why sweat when all's void
Yeah girl! World's ending in 10,
But mama, she's ain't eaten yet,
Marred to death by life's cruel guitar
She's hopelessly hopeless in me hopeless,
But mama, she talks to her tears lengthy
We bloodthirsty for the western sun to shine
Wickedness pools from pillows and these damn furs
Lettttt, MEeee, beee, I gotta hit it for Mama, I gotta,
Psychically murdered,
Economic damnated,
Politically bruised
Societally stagnated,
Traditionally cursed,
Morally unsolicited,
Religiously condemned.
Wickedness tables and workstations run far. I gotta.
Leetttt, MEee, fucken beee, fraud, I'm Mama's baby
WTF! Is all
Do I accept the evil furs, & sleep, to eternity doom?
Do I chase the irresistible cursor, & screens & keys?
What The Freaking Fuck!? It says;
You're a phony
You're a fraud,
You're a sham, a façade, a charade.
You're a fake, a pretender, displayed.
You're a mockery, a jest, a mistake.
You're a deception, a lie, for goodness sake.
You're a counterfeit coin, a heart that's opaque.
And I say;
Fuck you!!
Only I can tell who I am!
I'm pulling the guns on these shit,
Cause I gotta, for Mama, for Me.
© Ral Joseph 2025
Shadow Dwellers - H. R. Sinclair
we met as shadow dwellers
wool wearers
skewed mirrors reflecting
others favourite selves
struggling to feel our own skin
but knowing we wore something
for sure, it was something
not of our creation
a face with no name
or no face at all
a mere copycat
cheshires smoke concealing
hiding, hindering or helping
helping us fainter felines
fostered to help
not me and you
but the who whom took us
broken and battered
we may have been
broken and battered
we will soon be
under their wings
their soaring fly
crushing us beneath them
under their wings
their crashing fall
we follow them
what did you go by
before you were born?
what case and character
held your being?how did you choose? (at all)
do you know that
facade at all?
will you remove it
with me?
attend its funeral
and face your future
your black looks better
in the light
than their shadow
BLOW. FROM. YOUR. CHEST
that former fume
you need it not
anymore
spill that libation
lose that lull
allow your soul
an awakening
THE awakening
ignore that lullaby
you know by heart
and hold my heart
as I hold yours
poison pains those
who drink it
greed controls those
who consume it
burdens are for those
who choose them
I do not choose them
anymore
I choose you
we can fly
not under another
we can fly
not because of
another
but because
we can
fly.
© H. R. Sinclair 2025
There’s Something Unspoken Lurking in the Iron - Bexiexz
there’s something unspoken lurking in the iron, - it’s streaks in lines we can’t see, it’s shrieks in the fine details we miss when we sleep and dream for tomorrow - the iron feels no sorrow for the hammer as it flails about the iron, a gravity, it brings it down in large and loud sound, dead, heavy and serious; the act complete - that something lurking in the iron - that dirtied mystique unspoken it speaks to the gravitas of the mere living it’s been crucial for over the years, the transport of oxygen and energy in ways unknown, - the iron feels no sorrow when the hammer drops down in me, I break into pieces, hard and like stone - my shrieks unhoned, I become the something unspoken in the dream for tomorrow.
© Bexiexz 2025 - YouTube video created by author.
Disorderly Conduct - Linda Kowalchek
As I survey my modest home,
I behold a giant mess.
A tangle of disorder slowly accumulated,
With no time for reconciliation in sight.
Scores of lidded plastic boxes
Ready to be filled with hope for a new beginning.
A roll of shiny black trash bags
Waiting to be stuffed with remnants of the past.
Scratched stoneware dishes pile up in the sink,
Faucets drip, and pipes leak.
Dirt buried deep in the carpet
Awaiting a vacuum to suck it clean.
The dark disorder tells a story
Of two souls who were once entwined.
A couple bereft of energy
To repair the many fractures dividing their worlds.
Their existence is now one of apathy,
Of distant and detached days.
Two people too uncaring to repair
That which they have become.
Circumstances and days past have
Taken their toll.
Emotional anguish, and loss
Of those we love and those who have loved us.
But healing and resolve will begin.
And with it will be the strength
And motivation
To move forward with purpose.
Light will flow through the
Fissures of the relationship,
Like a mosaic that is cast
By the sun through a pinhole in a rooftop.
Because everything is temporary,
Nothing lasts forever,
And this, too, shall pass.
Insert your cliché of optimism here.
© Linda Kowalchek 2025 - A comprehensive revision of Linda's first ever poem. Originally published on Medium, and revamped for Black Coffee Poetry.
I Could Be Mistaken - Jill Eng
once in a while, it was a stated thing to forget what was about to happen. and then the bewildering element of not knowing could never take place. something of a missing piece. or was it link? one way or another, the deviated path would have to settle for what was to come.
a trap of prediction. wondering always in the dark of an empty suspicion. trying to figure it out. the peculiar elusiveness of feeling like it was on the tip of your tongue. a misguided imperceptibility. maybe never was the format to frame the inquisition of the mind.
I could be mistaken, however. because it certainly seemed possible to find the solution before it presented. it must be somewhere. delightedly hiding in its crevice of speculation. I cannot imagine what it was thinking, or was that me? I always confuse that part.
congruent or not, a hefty illusion was at play. diving in full force to trip up the wires in the head that were sure of their absolute power. taking turns spinning webs in tangles of forward calculations. grabbers of the gift of thought. thinking they had it all plotted out.
trailblazers. it was comforting to mismanage one’s mind. without getting into trouble. after all, who better to take the blame than the wizard of all supposition? or was that presumption? tricksters pretending they know everything before it begins.
a chase, at best, or worst. depends how you look at the predicament. a failing capacity to believe this, only to come up with that. or someone did, at least. a mesmerizing cat with its tail imparting knowledge against what was safe to trust. at least that’s what I was told.
© Jill Eng 2025 | A guest post by
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So many stars under a clear Black Coffee Poetry sky..each shine 💗 my heart is happy to be ! To just be!
HUGE thanks to all writers involved in The Blank Page.
Y'all did good, reeeeal good.