Liquid suffering flows through my trembling hand.
Fine threads of consciousness dangle from my fingers.
You are my only escape, o lines of straight.
I've nowhere to go but to the quill.
Ears closed to my verbal scribbling,
I'm left scratching on soft whiteness.
Blank pages fill with sharp edges and marred thoughts.
Blank pages adhere to my senses, massaging my brittle ego.
Ink dances across the parchment,
collecting my despair as it drips.
What was once a crutch is now a necessity.
What was once a hiding place is now a home.
Within these margins I am secure,
this wretched bliss I will defend.
No comments:
Post a Comment