Emotionalism

I am,

generally,

Not one to spread teardrops through ink

When every letter is stretched out

So thinly

I am bedridden by my own hand.

When the lightening in my muscles

That spark

Hinders in my paperclip joints

And my dogmatic heart

I rule with ailing fingers

And a critical waspishness.

But despite my rigidity,

I still love you

I still love

For I am broken.

And I call out to the ashamed

And the weak,

For they comfort me.

So I speak to the paint

And the wood and the tile

That multiply before me

In a mass production

I envy

But despite my ailing character,

I still love you

I still love the pen

That regurgitates my blood

As sticky and black.

Making words so elusive

I’ve stopped counting the moons

For I have stopped seeing them.

And despite my ailing vision,

I still love you.

I still love the storm

And the teardrops that turn to ink

And I will never stop counting on the pen

Until my ink makes sense.