scratching harsh pencil into a dry skin...
it shouldn’t be blade, it shouldn’t be thin
bold, vivid, that it is an x-ray of pain
am to remember the ever passing green…
satisfaction, the wisdom I feel
aging that matters to the stupidest kin
justice – prerogative of week...
while I scratch that pencil into the dry skin
not even a drop of a liquid, the body
connections are tightened by thorns
my brain is a slicker machine...
what used to be heart once is now a dried sieve
scratching harsh pencil into the dry skin...