But, God, what would I have done with myself
If it wasn't for poetry ?
If these hands couldn't manifest
My mute soul
And bleed what refuses
To untangle
From the tip of my tongue
Where could I have turned
With all these floods
Unstoppable rains
Trying to break through the lids
Sealed tight on my eyes
Through the barricades
Of fires and fuming hurricanes
Tearing apart to shreds
What's left of my heart
It's the greatest boon
Aside from being
To be able to weep at my own bareness of feels
To sigh with the tenderness
And instant blush of a lover pining for their beloved
As I read what my hands
Have left for time to grasp
Touch these strokes,
Almost pulsing with vigor and convulsing pain
The dying will of my flat brush.