I'm not hard, my pen-is
Erecting ideas hands free
Fluctuating thoughts up and down
Sweating emotions like my heart is on a marathon
Curving negativity directing it to positivity spots
Ideas crying out of my soul
So writing gives them holes
I point in metaphors
They pore out through my pores birthing hairy sentences
I brush them into verse
They grow teeming up like a curse
I act fulfilled but the fool of me feels empty, parched so I queench my thirst
Drinking my own excretions

Hoping for someone to take me to an ****
So I can shave some and that's the sum of how I can save the paper I write on
It told me stories of its native habitation
Beautiful barked tapestries called a tree
But I have to put it out of its misery with a fruitful full stop. So writers do like Adam and bite this