velvety sheets of
cream colored paper somehow
endure grand monsoons
of woe etched onto its skin
it feels pain, it is my fault

torn by my stylus
by what it carries in its
dark ink, spilling out
defacing them both, broken
children of confusion, pain

dark ink spilling paths
worn smooth by the passage of
questions, a stampede
of them, they act like hard cold
answers with less certainty

everything you find
in one who is acquainted
with the pain that is
questioning, is that a thing,
no, you are wrong, surely no

why do you plant such
a delightful garden here
only to allow
insects to plague and consume
take the drive from its thin roots

why has joy bounded
into even my crossed
arms only to be
slain by the dagger of fear
that it is all a fiction

I cannot bring air
inside to ventilate my head
I cannot bring light
into the dark swathes, closets
of stirred up notions, quibbling

why do you give me
wings to see the sky, love the
sun just to be stripped
of it by the clouds that rain,
downpour, obscure with dense fog

help, my paper, please
be lit by the sun, show what
is beneath the ink