I spend my time erasing similes,
which fail to mark the depth of what I feel.
I feel as gray as graphite in its pleas
for words of color, words which might reveal
how far beyond the whiteness of the page
my blood might raise the hue of what I write.
Each simile erased conceals the rage
of passion unexpressed, my inner fight.
I fight myself, my feelings, word for word.
I justify the purpose of my song,
when all I want is simply to be heard
by anyone who cares to sing along.
At times I press so hard the pencil breaks
like every simile my mind forsakes.