no energy, feeling weak,
blue sky, clouds,
A breeze plays among the chimes,
I don’t know the words
that could explain this feeling,
or even describe it.
I only know that when it comes,
this little black book and pen,
finds its way to my hand.
Instead of me bleeding,
instead of me crying,
the pen weeps ink on this page,
the page begins to fill,
until, finally bereft,
the pen stops moving.
Or maybe, this ink is my blood,
transmuted through archaic processes,
from me through the pen,
and these words are the result
of all I must express.
All that demands expression, somehow satiated,
by the blood splattered all over this page,
in these sloppy yet organized patterns,
these squiggles we call words.
This feeling is an old familiar one,
comfortable in its familiarity,
but terrible in the act of feeling it.
No wonder as I bleed this ink
onto the page I feel an emptiness,
I identify as relief.