Oxblood On The Doorjamb And An Indigent In The Sand Poem by Shannon Walker

You get halfway through a page,
Or an idea, and then forget
What you were trying to say,
Or your fountain pen dies,
The ink dries up in the nib,
And just scratches across
The same page. It's like

Sending rounds downrange
And having multiple misfires
On a 30 round magazine
Of 45 caliber ammunition
Through your favorite weapon.
By the time you get down,
You can't even aim.

You just wind up writing gibberish,
But at least your still breathing.