Scribbling in little weaving scratchy black lines, neat but still
uncertain,
unsure of where the ink should turn to next, leaving
blotches of unsureity riddled awkwardly across my page,
my hand turns a phrase of no meaning, only to strike
it through with a line too curvy yet too straight to be
       intentional.
We are forced to write until shooting pains
crawl
up
our
hands and arms and we cry
out “no more, no more” and all of a sudden
they turn it to your life, they say
we are useless
without these marks
depicting memories
of frantic
late night
remembering.