My nose, it just bled numbers--
Bled for years on years unnumbered
'Til I lost my youthful hunger
For anything but numbers
And coagulating blood

But with figures cold and clotting
And with innards now unknotting
I clear the corridors of blotting
And begin to finally breathe

Know pens belong on pages
In your pockets, in your hands
Not in lives, or heads or veins
Most certainly not in plans.