Mass Incarceration of Words Left Unwritten

The Bleeding of my pen   is    routine

The black of my book and the white of its page     contrast     clean

and when my pen begins to  lean

to the side       I get to scribblin’ on the fly

 

pardon me, pen, but is your ink gasoline?

i must know, cause if I write any faster

not only will the veins in my hand  surely die

but I’ll lose control of my pen of who I am the master

and

my college rule might spontaneously combust

from the rubbing of lines plastered

both ageless and page-less, the sheets went from alabaster

to my burned book, turned to neon grey dust

me an arson and my heart hardened

the ash glowing from the  friction and fictional friendship between pen and pape,

This fear is why my words though great,

Always struggle to find escape

 

phrase and diction,

stranger than fiction

as if my words are weaned,

meant to be left at the crime scene, or a doorstep like

breastfed babies

My words die daily

they are the evidence–forgotten, lost

and slipped through buttered fingers

My word have been tossed to the back of the bus,

My words have been rejected and told “you can’t sit with us”.

My words have been marginalized into pure annotations, given no space to

grace pages

only boarders

having been put in places that I can’t call spacious

too small of surfaces

But too often I get these urges        to write

Sources to cite,

and forces to fight including my own strong will and rage

Because my words

recieved no wages for the work of description and definition

when I write them on my pages they are burdens

I pick up the sheets,

and the words rip right through, tearing the pressed-thin trees with their weight,

fluttering to the floor,

which is why I try to remember to write in cursive,

thinking maybe the softness of each curve could spring peace

or the delicacy of disguise could bring release

from the comments held captive in my mind as a jar

Cause what i have to say has been behind bars

Convicted and conflicted and told not to take charge.

But too bad my words can be as free as I am based on how I feel,

And words can fill the void when nothing else can heal

I don’t mind writing in the margins every now and then,

but if i’m ever gonna be free I’m gonna have to use my pen,

because having the gift, and sitting on my hands ain’t nothing but a sin

mass incarceration, locked up in the pen

Penitentiary, my words (confined) could find cells endlessly,

but I’m trying to remember that the pen ain’t my enemy,

My words aren’t just accessory and my expression isn’t a choice.

My words may just be written but they still echo like a voice

Ringing through the trees, potential paper

Vibrations gracing their bark,

and I’m reminded of my duty,

 

Pens leave permanent marks

and words can leave permanent scars.

One phrase can unleash a beast,

Which is why I’m so careful with the words I free.

 

 

 

 

 

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