Chapter 1 – Precious Core

15 May

Fingers I use to write

Crawl over the words

Your fingers have already written.

Friction between hand and paper

Creates heat

Your feelings burn, yet

My skin knows no blister of shame

Or pain with you.

No poems of self-destruction, please.

My letters not few

Drive themselves through white snow

Making way for the plow

Creating a path for

Would be pilgrims into

Untamed territory

Not yet explored

Or even invented

My pen cuts my brain

To its precious core.

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