My thoughts smash through my skull,
bursting forth with a stream of words
that I can neither control nor stop.
Why was I created this way?
It is still never what I want to say.
No, that is reserved for the paper in which
I spend my days hiding in.
Diving into the endless recesses of my mind
to scratch and dig and pick out
a single strand of pain that filters
through the rest of my body,
so that I can feel raw and unbridled
as I scratch ink on the paper
in a scrawl that is nearly ineligible
not even I can read it.
So instead I let my fingers
go numb from gliding across keys,
so that all may hear my scream
instead of taking that pen and inking my arm
in red, red ink.
So much ink that it passes my skin and bleeds into my veins
just to mingle with the blood
and flow back out in rejection
of all that I was, and all that I am.