Stepping On The Cracks

Writing is like: Trying to sing a song you've never heard Or trying to live someone else's life, As a picture inside their photo album No one can help with it. The sadness appears far away Speedily it moves to a place inside of you Inside the eyes, like ripe berries, of a blackbird Inside the absence of the sister I never had Inside the tens of thousands of unfertilized eggs Life does not reward us for the sterile urges The aborted plots, the miscarried plans In the flower I just plucked Lie all the other three thousand blooms I ever dismembered Breathing out as one, they plant the seed: Watery tears and then A bank of weeds sprouts somewhere within my brain Privy to the common lot of flowers, and mankind, How can I ask for more? How can I fail to ask, for more?