When I pen, what really is the intent.
To answer a question or delve in sophistry;
to express the self or churn a story?

Most likely,
a surgical act to extract the knives lodged in the chest.
A walk to meet a lover, when the legs do not answer.
A savage, deafening scream that only I can hear.
An arduously extracted knife, pushed back through the chest.

The pen is my voice hoarse, a pitch I cannot reach.
It is total silence, less the pummelling waves.
It is my eyes closed, where logic makes sense.
But it is no map, but a maze, where I lose my hands.

*It is across my back, a different dimension.
Where the right is sullied with nothing available.
It is wrought and taut in every direction.
A lost heart, a lost soul, a lost art, a lost woe.

This M is a ****, treat it with needle and thread.
This K is a sigh, cage its noise and beware.
This C is a life, what burdens will he bear?
This I is a lie, why should anyone care.

I give and I write. One and the same.
A grave and thimble to protect my faith.
A loathing and swelling to numb the brain.
A mangled lie, as always, I go away.