Ink bleeds out of the tip of the pen, over
my heart's surface, and if words are sharp enough
it scratches. But this motion will come to cease
one day, same as this current (subcritical) flow
The hand that does not reach out for an utensil
to record and create, can only hang limp and empty
on the sides. Palms that hold air, but cannot curl
up into fists.

Self-censored tongue-tie, blind eyes
Sorrow coupled with fatigue, wearing
the body of flesh down to bone.
stripped bare, and with fragile hands,
when anger orders its destructive demands
I obey, gritting crooked teeth
Throwing punches at my own shadows