My heart is an inkwell, each beat
sending rivers through my veins
that stain my nails black, every
second nearing me to the moment
I’ll run dry; full colour pages
getting fainter and fainter with each sheet.
Every time I am naive enough
to believe that I’ll never exhaust myself,
that I can keep up the image
projected in front of my face,
my fingertips blacken and all that I am
drips off them to the ground,
trodden down and kicked easily
aside by those who are so trained to follow along
that they never even notice I’ve crumpled.
I want to speak up, but my mouth
and my brain are so disconnected
I can only do it when someone takes the time
to give me a pen and paper,
and I can let my blood pour out and form itself into words,
hoping, simply hoping,
that they’ll finally understand.
Treeshallow Musings 