Art, Pen


We don’t need dark corners to sob,
but cold shoulders will do.
Folded tissues inside your clutched fist,
explain your trembling voice and hiding eyes.

You seem heavy,
or is it what you are holding in?
Chewing and swallowing paper chits,
with ink washed errors and typos.

I apologize that I’m studying you.
Rather than comforting you,
I’m writing about your sufferings.
You might think of me as a sadist!

But my pen feeds on blood,
and you are bleeding fresh.
I am all out and dry,
just some bones and flesh.


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