A thousand pens are killed, ink is spilled, countless pages filled
and crumbled into clumps of cluttered thoughts that drift away.
Documented moments spent around a line of time that’s bent
into a knotted ball of thread, unread and void of praise.
My compulsion is confinement, a commission given by
a god I don’t believe in or my silent, shadow side.
A seed that blooms to thorns that prod the base my worth is built upon,
pokes and pierces till release is bled and satisfied.
There is no gift or choice to this. Expression is to just exist.
The withered soul of one who holds their talent, never I.
A mind that moves in metaphor, a spirit shaped in metered form,
a slave to placement and arrangement of poetic lines.
Pen be cross, and paper, savior, crucified by riverside…
a monument to effort spent, unnoticed and unknown.
So it goes, the ink is dried in gracefully symmetric lines,
paralleled to worth of self which will one day be shown.