Fingertips singed with ink trail over paper that’s still crisp with innocence
Spreading the ashes of all the words that were no more than the potential
Laying forgotten among the carnage of its crinkled sisters

With every scrape and smudge of the pen, the heart is at risk
Like a slab of raw meat on the butcher’s block
Waiting patiently for the cool kiss of the cleaver

But this heart is a violent heart
Ruthless in its mission
Forever evading the Doubts grazing their silver teeth across its juicy flesh
Grinning gleefully, defiantly
Fueled by spilled ink and wasted words