As I sit here by myself,
I try to write these words.
I try to force them into sense,
and make them not sound absurd.

I used to transfer pain,
through the tip of this pen.
Pouring out the poison,
so that I could think again.

I used to bask in the hollow,
that the transfer left behind.
Breathing in the silence,
of a defragmented mind.

Then one day I wrote something,
and set back to enjoy the peace,
but the transfer didn’t happen,
and the noise seemed to increase.

It was like instead of hitting transfer,
my mind hit copy instead.
It was there on the page,
but it was still in my head.

I began to panic,
with every poem I wrote.
The poison wouldn’t leave,
and it was coating my throat.

I began to notice teardrops,
and that my words were blurred.
I never even knew I was crying,
but my brain was slurred.

Whatever this is,
it’s taken hold of me.
It won’t allow me the pleasure,
of setting my thoughts free.

So I’m slowly filling up,
and tipping more each day.
One day I’ll crash over,
and this debt will be paid.

I think that’s the reason,
that I can’t force it out.
I have sins to atone for,
ones I can’t forget about.