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Cursed Pen

Cursed Pen 

My pen is cursed. 
It flows poisoned ink.
Ripped pages and severed
dreams. 
Hollow. 
Screaming. 
Into the dark. 
Screaming into the life
of others. 
Because there is nothing. 

I am the darkness-
and I am the scream. 
Threads of half words. 
Searching, looking. Attack- 
I am not proud. 

But *how* did this happen? 
There is life, joy. People feel it, I think. 
Just not when I'm around. 
There is frost and bitter cold. 
Cold doesn't pierce my skin. 
Fingers trace- touch- scratch, claw, bite. 
Tap tap. Trace. 
Curving, twisted, *searing* pain. 

What do the pages of a book feel like?
And what is tea if not scalding down your throat? 
Caught, 
Inhale, 
then it's gone. 
A nice warm drink. 
For some. 

They think they're all so clever,
up on their thrones. 
Making the world churn. 
Making themselves burn. 
At who's expense? 

What is the point of a fire 
if it is simply shine? 
The wood-
it cracks and shivers- 
and then it roars. 
The embers dance. 
Heat, I think. 

The world is a black and white film. 
The world is turning inwards on its lies. 
The people talk, they mutter and they post. 
They think they know it all. 
Spine, bone. Connected to them all-it *should*
be. 

Why are the leaves green if I cannot feel them? 
Why is laughter audacious if it doesn't come from the soul? 
Why does the sun warm every skin- what if the 
sun *seared?* 
Seared into cracks of being. 

Because what is the point of living 
if your corpse shows up
to every family dinner?

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