To be punished with a sting for pursuing love
without any chance of recourse.
An ache to fill the spaces between life -
stifled by deformity, by exertion, by pain.

To resist the urge to use blood as ink
after grinding a pencil into paper until
the ideas abruptly end - not by lack of thought,
but by the lead ending at the pristine eraser.

For what causes more pain?
Halting the progress of creation
or creating at the cost of oneself?