My freedom to scribe is my only effect.
Without it, I border the shores of insanity,
I cling to it like a newborn to its mother.
Without it, I park my emotions on the nearest pier
And sit, wallowing in the thousands of tiny regrets
That devour me on a daily basis.
They have eaten so much that raw bones
Are all that remain of my sanctity.
There is a war that looms ahead, I can sense it.
I stand on one side with my pen ready to bludgeon.
A thousand qualms oppose me, ready to strike.
And my freedom to scribe is thrust in the middle,
Playing the role of peacemaker.
2012 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as BLACK ANGEL
Excerpt from the chapbook “Brain Weeds and Depressed Souls”