The Paper never asked me to tell my story
Truth is I wouldn’t know how to write the feeling
But the Pen.. She knew
She guided my hands to dig deep obtuse
Screaming lines againt the evenly lined surface
I no longer pen in organized letters
But in
Gashing wounds
That reveal themselves more readily as mortal
Injuries than prose
Stuck in parables amid paralyzed paragraphs
That at times scrawl the same letter of one word
Deeper and deeper into the page until the ink and the impression and the
Meaning and the tears begin to show through
To the unsoiled side
Passion is a substance
Fear is an element
Anger is a curse
Tears at times the blessing
For the weeping
Like open wounds releasing the bacterial drippings
Of a diseased aura
And exhaustion never takes over the senses until the final
Agonizing line
Bleeds fully from my friend ,the pen, my enemy the heart
And the emotionless vulcan of my mind
And as my knees touch the ground at last in a weary
Relenting pose
And I dare not open my eyes
Just KNOWING that after such a tirade
The world most certainly has ended
And I peer out to see the sun still shining
The SON still shining
The grass still bladed
Living another day
Duly Noted
...
