Blackout poetry

My first attempt at blackout poetry, courtesy of my local library, who had loads of loose book pages to try it on and a display board for people to proudly show what they’ve done. Yay for awesome libraries!

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Overtime in the notebook

The lighthouse lamp dies.

Fog creeps into each synapse,

hiding the true path.

Crisp Pages

I open my journal, touch

the fibre rich pages with my pen      and pause.

How do I word the thoughts

in    my   head?

L e t t e r s  skip around, a merry jig

and I’m struck by how many writings

have come before this,

before me.

Surely those hands   did not falter   so?

Or perhaps they did,

and persevered anyway.

Ink

It spills out through my veins

my corneas, fingernails,

bleeding from my nose

to splash the page I’m fixed to.

I don’t find it suffocating,

only cold. But

it warms every now and then

when the words demand it

for their dinner.

I like those times.

I like to feed them.