Seeping out of every pore,
cutting a swathe of
righteous, pure, indignation
upon us all.
This ink, that slowly
courses through my veins,
through my half formed thoughts,
my selfish wounds,
winding a path of terror,
through mind, body and soul.
This icicle of a heart,
beats poison through
these broken veins,
coursing through my body,
my sacred kingdom.
I tremble,
as it claws
at my insides,
it reads my very heart,
paws through my thoughts,
toys with my desires,
it plays with my strings,
I am a marionette,
dancing to my masters tune.
And still,
I swim,
through this dark liquid,
its dark dreams
oozing through my pores,
seeping into my lungs,
I cannot conquer it,
it shall use me,
as it does others,
its will shall spill,
onto unblemished,
pure paper.
YOU ARE READING
For the writers
PuisiThe words that strain in a writers mind, they come to fruition only when unleashed upon this world. Contained in these pages are poems about them, those words that both keep us captive and free us simultaneously.