Sometimes I punish my pen
I force the ink to release the pain within.
As, if the ink is my blood.
The pen my devoid heart.
Pumping punishment upon the paper.
Sometimes so close to euphoria I can sense the creator,
Teetering on the edge of acceptable prose.
Held in a silent and still serpentine pose.
As my personal woes flood the paper below.
The ink glistens and glows.
With the fabric of my broken soul.
And as I slather the pages with doubt there is a tole.
I expose the whole.
Of a broken soul.