With blackened fingertips,
I swallow my tears.
Ink cascading with steady drips,
I jot down all my fears.

Will I be forced off the beaten path,
that I've traveled for years?
Will I still remember how to laugh,
Or will it be a memory to my ears?

The noise is white and static hums,
I cannot concentrate.
The measure of all my emotions, like drums
I bash them down with hate.

I do not think you understand,
how toxic you've become.
Dangling above the land,
from here I have been strung.

A broken puppet on display,
With a chipped porcelain face.
Cut me down, and here I'll lay,
With shaking hands I trace.

I trace the walls of this home,
filled with longing and desire.
I'm broken, yet I still will roam,
'Till my mind burns in this fire.