I tape quills to the underside of each forearm
In order to simulate flight
–
My heart serves as both inkwell and millstone
Depending on the proximity of my muse
–
There is no catharsis in withdraw
Only the dissemination of sorrow
Through undignified outlets, namely
Crying when one is fearful of sleep
–
When in company my muse surreptitiously plucks
The numerals from every clock within visual range
That I might remain indefinite in confinement
–
She is the residue of every lunar passage
Since the dawn of my existence
She translates my failings into wisdom
There is no drug more permissive than poetry
mindlovemisery 