Stood Inside The Pen

Sometimes the pen feels like a prison
and you stand in it
not as a warrior
but as what warriors attempt to write about

as the wounds they survived:

blood to bruise,
bruise to scar,
scar to a memory you cannot outrun.

Sometimes the pen is a guillotine poised
for all your darlings
a quiet witness to your rage,
a sponge for your
ink-soaked fears to bleed all over paper,
pool down to your feet

then you're suddenly
ankle-deep in every truth
you tried to make beautiful,
wondering if survival
was ever meant to be written down
at all.