Sonnet To The Unexpressed

There is a quiet desperation
lurking, pacing, plotting-- waiting--to be penned,
traveling in unvoiced isolation
into my hand, with which the power to rend
this fierce mindset to proper paper thrust.
Blindfolded thought: to the pen vision bend
the soul. It bleeds to paper inky rust.
Starved art is monstrous! Thoughts I dread to tend.
Intellectually empty shotgun shell
bids rage drain from my head into my hand.
Fear the ordinary! O sin, expel
blessings to the curse where the darkness stands.
Sun rise, sun sets, again the day begets
mind-fading, turning cold; the hand forgets