Confined in concrete and silence;

The serrated edges; scarring.

With blank spaces, impatient for thoughts

And handholds with which I can peek.

As I push myself higher,

My hands catch hold of a fence.

When I sit over the edge,

The fence digging into my legs,

My palms scratched and ******,

I decide; a mere jump cannot take

From me the pen I have longed to hold;

And so the inkless pages begin bleeding ink.