Here, this might explain it better:
the page is blank
white, clean, antiseptic
intimidating in its sterility
in a rush, I fill the left margin with doodles
triangles and swirls to taint the page’s purity with my black ink
and throw my head back on the couch
tapping the page with my pen
The words still don’t come.
or are they just lost?
Only clinical words are written
exact in their meaning,
of the strength I wish to give them.
sitting on the floor
with a plastic blue lap desk
balanced on my thighs
I pick at the scabs that have crusted over
in my writing
It hasn’t healed properly.
I haven’t healed properly.
using a jagged fingernail as a chisel
I scrape away the layers
of verbose articulation.
In the crevasse
of a pitted and hardened gash
I find a word
thick with webby strands of my tissue
my mouth falls open as I concentrate
eyes focused on the word
a sharp tug
and it’s free.
I place it tenderly
sloppy with my own blood
on the page.
I sketch more doodles around it
framing of graphite ribbons.
A gentle smile
the lines of my jaw tensed with silenced pain
a tiny salve of accomplishment.
It looks a little bit like poetry
but there’s still much more page to fill.