Self-Mutilation
Ink pens fit the fist nicely
and stab,
so I cast them away from your hand.
Scribbling in the wind,
they land
on sheets of new words.
Paper turned sideways slices,
quick. shreds, unread, ignored.
I let fly tiny pieces,
stars in the heavens of mess,
that is our space, safe place devoid
of paper cuts, puncture wounds, and bruises.
Avoid paper, pens, words are useless.
Head’s against the wall again.
Hammers on a drum.
Hair in the air.
Pull away, scream,
repeat.
I’m useless.
It’s the wall I can’t defeat.
Tags: Poetry
