I've got the scars from countless paper cuts
and calluses from the pressure to write.
Maybe instead of letting my eyes shut,
I should just let it become the cool night.
Who says I need to rest my weary head?
When I could stay awake and ponder life,
on my shaky desk where my hands have bled.
Who says I shall become a foolish wife!
I don't spit on those who are now happy.
Their stories do not flow from my heart's dark.
I can't relate to feelings as sappy
as trees when we strike and peel back their bark.

Such unions made are blessings and curses.
Together we stress over the verses.

I bound my hands to my strange illusions.
I hope it brings far better conclusions.