Think I’ll wait
A while longer
Till terror comes
Spilling out of me
In hopes
That something different
May finally
Find this pen

Going back
To basics
Where I write
In shortest rhythms
By fear
Of skipping heartbeats
Which fuel such
Honest words

Worried
I barely seize
What terms
Are bound to fester
If the moment
Builds on anger
When neglecting
Voices heard

As agony
Rarely waits
For a chance
Not often taken
Amidst work
Or other dangers
That diminish art
With cause

To deny
My feelings bold
Or blood
I drip from moments
Filtered
By this inkwell
And distilled through
Purest verbs

Truths
I hardly seek
If not for
Spoken wishes
Which compel
My heightened senses
From the rush
Of spouting prose

Relishing
This past
That turns
From now to nevers
As I narrate
Awesome weakness
By the risk
Of stilted speech

How I miss
This guiltless death
Of confessing
Tragic endings
By suicides
Plainly stated
As expressions
Of gorgeous hurt

Learning
Frequent waste
Is fuel
For broken phrases
Unleashed
From changing persons
Who most likely
Stay the same

Decent
Though they claim
Their mind
Is splitting fountains
With cracks between
These spaces
Which cease
Such endless flow

An eternal
Place of rest
And debt
To running rivers
Cascading
Like this interest
In achieving
Perfect streams

My one
And only chance
Slipping through
These trenches
As I chase
That open dialogue
Of channels
Cut too short

What memory
I guess
Is deterrent
For these idioms
Which betray
My fairest efforts
To redeem
Such time I lost

Praying
Standing still
And believing
Passive triumphs
Are bound to come
Full circle
If I sit
Just long enough.

– J. Pigno