This shell I wear over my calloused,
austere soul means even less than having
absolutely nothing without the future that
became my past, bruises sketched permanently
and cracks inked on my decaying bones.
All I can do is yearn to float ashore but even
that seems like a dream dreamed without slumber.
(Drowning in chipped wells of ink sounds easier.)
Trust and fear crush the youth in my spine and bipolarity
is achieved without a whimper of protest but what is a
hopeless romantic to do anything but accomplish reality
in the gory ghost walking without feet, without a sound?
Listening loudly to voiceless talks is priceless because it
cannot be quantified with any currency in anyone’s pockets
and I can only dive headfirst into the inkwell that knows no
bottom, a bottomless pot of melted words and bent pens.
(Drowning in chipped wells of ink sounded easier back then.)
