The Things I Write

The pen is an extension of my mind;

An extra nerve sending pulses of energy onto paper in the form of ink lines

the release that no one knows.


After hours are years of regrets unsaid, the rigorous trials of my mind begin

with the destruction of muscle over the course of five miles

interrupted by other peoples thoughts.

the grief washes away as sweat while I drown my mind in the torrent of belittlement and embarrasment.

the surviving ideas not shamed away are silenced by the food

the very nutrients that keeps me alive consume my thoughts and needs.


After a brisk walk through the fire which makes up the internet, interspersed with equations and symbols-

I am alone.

Where I find the only thing keeping me company is the memories.

After all the careful trials I hold, the remaining victor is the one whose name I bleed onto blue lines and white spaces through metaphors:





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