My body rejects the writing
because writing
is like an I.V. in my veins.
It clears the venom
out of my body
and dries up
the river of words
in my mind.
I do not want to be
a skeleton
with pretty bones
and no substantial thoughts.
Writing polishes my soul
but I lose the piece of me
that made me fight.
I have so much to say
but I am slowly
chipping away and
all I can do
is watch my brain decay.
Every time I write
my fingers crack under the pressure
that maybe after this poem
everything will be ok.
