A Cough. No, I Guess Not

A cough,
then I heard a piece of paper
rip.
Not a slow tear,
but the fast rip of
“I’m done with this piece of paper forever.”

Symbolic dreaming again?
What am I done with now?

Am I fed up with the paperwork
I must do to stay alive,
eating and breathing.

Find the 1″ sliver of paper from 1988 that proves
you are worthy to live in a house
of an appropriate size that stops my fourteen year old
from having to duck as he walks through a doorway
and hits his head on a lightbulb
dangling from the ceiling
in the smallest bathroom in the world.

Or, am I done with
the processing and analyzing of words
before I let them go onto a piece of paper?

I can write myself into a knot,
untie it, then tie it in a bow
give it to myself as a present
open it, pulling the ribbon of thought
until the central knot can not
be loosened

I wrote it to death
overworked, over thought,
sliced, diced and pureed.
I would like a word smoothie please
but only if you put kale in it.

Have I abandoned the act of writing
because I can no longer read my own handwriting?
and

because,
thesaurus save me from my repetition,
due to, as a way of, owing to,
(Would I ever write or say in virtue of?)

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