I bleed nouns, verbs, adverbs, all over the pages;
A crash-course in road rash; my face skidding in the dirt.
If not for this cursor cursing at me,
I’d hang myself like a picture; reframe it.
It’s a curse that’s unrehearsed –
Unscripted, in reverse;
Rolling back over & opening my eyes,
Still here, still breathing; surviving
Conspiring to kill me before my time.
I’m not dead yet.