My hand didn't want to awaken those abjections
but the ink wondered aimlessly on the paper.
Sullen  episodes were like a cloud on the page.

Mists of what was like heavy dew on my
mind, thoughts drooped uncontrollably.
Then they conceded under strain descending.

Ink was abstract as I never understood why
I felt this incosectant need to cry every thought
on paper. My reflection is not what I feel inside.