A TEAR IN THE PAGE

I dream of open hearts that are open journals
where imperfectly crafted thoughts are
thoughtfully transacted crofts that sit in lots
for different minds to excavate and till.

Yet today I find it hard when all I see are hills
that mask my clarity and birth disparity until
I am sure that I can never sleep because slumber
makes me stumble down the steep spiral binding
of this page off unto some incoherent writing.

For the words I publish are dismissed as rubbish
like barren land laden with weeds that fail to represent
the deeds of an overworked farmer or meticulous gardener.

Is this then the nature of collaboration -- desperation
for communication that transcends the self
unto the shelf amongst the univocal sound of other farmers?

It seems unsafe for me to think of such a harvest
because the ink on this paper is so heavy it sinks
past the brink of reason causing my eyes to water
the script I sought to author.

Now my journal is closed and my mind grows tired
from speaking dire words that remain unheard so 
I drift off and grow numb to these cold winds called 
winter.