Dark and thick,
It pours out over my tongue
On to the paper, through my
Chipped teeth.
The hand prints,
They aren't even mine that
Spread all over the
Canvas for words. It
Crawls out from inside
Like a sickness.
Hot and bubbly, the
Ink drips out. It tastes so
God awfully bad.
Arms buckled and nails
Scratching on the old wood
The retching fails to cease
Bringing nothing but
More Ink.
But nothing
Comes out.