blockage

I am looking for
fibrous substance
to relieve me of the shit
now constipating my fingers

this blockage lingers
like cigarette rings on ceramic
leaving stagnant stanzas
to dangle like participles
from my mind

I’m in a rough age
where just living should
be enough of a muse
to suffuse my psyche
with the necessary words

yet my fingers continue to swell
with unpainted thoughts
bloated with the carcasses
from battles fought
between the tribes of trite and true

I’ll continue to experience life
in hopes that I digest enough fiber
to release the excrement now
unwilling to spill freely from within me
I’m tired of staring at unstained paper