basin of thought, edges well-worn

for the past three decades
i've been erasing every word
that drips from my soaking fingers
out of spite, perhaps,
or a twisted sense of
purpose.

i ask myself,
"if they are writers,
then what am i?
what is I?"
and i have never found
a solution
though i have inverted myself
and my hypothermic fingers,
waterlogged with crooked pursuits
at a resolution.

so i can safely assume that the answer
is still out there
waiting to find me
with quiet eyes
and wet, wet fingers.